One Fine Day
by rahleeyah
Summary: AU: Ruth has made a fine life for herself post-Cotterdam, but a chance meeting blows her comfortable world wide open. Inspired in part by ScintillatingTart's "Fancies". Encouraged by the lovely AndAllThatMishigas. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_27 July 2013_

"I'm cold all the bloody time," Cate confessed.

Ruth hummed noncommittally, taking a sip of lukewarm beer from a sweaty bottle. Given the fact that it was getting on towards 10:00 p.m. and the temperature was hovering around 32 degrees Celsius she wasn't entirely sure how her companion could possibly even remember what it felt like to be cold. Then again, she mused, taking another swallow, in a way she supposed she could understand what Cate was trying to say. It wasn't the sort of cold that came with winter, a cold that could be banished with blankets and cups of tea. It was a cold that stayed, that lingered, a cold born of loneliness and wasted opportunities. Ruth knew a thing or two about that.

"I was never cold, before. Fabian was like my own personal electric blanket. I've bought one, of course, but it just isn't the same."

Ruth hummed again. _This is getting to be a habit,_ she thought glumly.

With school out for the summer holidays she and Cate both had far too much free time on their hands, and they were spending far too many of their evenings lamenting over the grief they shared in common. They'd met a few months before, when Cate moved in next door. Ruth had done the neighborly thing and introduced herself, and had been delighted to discover that her new neighbor also worked at the university, though in a different department, which explained how they'd never crossed paths before. A few other professors lived in their little subdivision as it was close enough to campus to make for a bearable commute, but far enough away that they never ran into their students in the grocery store. It was a quiet place, full of families, lush green gardens and gnarled oak trees, and after three years it was finally beginning to feel like home to Ruth. Having a friend so close at hand, one who, like Ruth, was raising children on her own and missing her dead husband fiercely, only served to settle her more permanently. She'd made a good life for herself here, a quiet, comfortable life, and she was glad for the companionship.

They were rather a lot alike, Cate and Ruth - or Rachel, as she was called now. Cate was perhaps a decade or so younger than Ruth, but the elder of her two boys was only a few weeks younger than Emma, and the children got on grandly. They were both rather quiet, and rather withdrawn, though whether that was as a result of their natures or their losses she could not say. And, of course, they were both from England. Cate had grown up in London, and Ruth had loved that city so dearly, and they enjoyed reminiscing about the old days. They were not the only expats working for the university - and in fact, Ruth had found, academia was rife with transplants from other cities, other countries, other times - but they gravitated towards one another nonetheless.

Ruth turned her head and caught Cate looking at her strangely, and realized she hadn't spoken for quite some time. She hastened to rejoin the conversation.

"My Harry was the same," she said softly, smiling a sad little smile.

It was all part of the legend, of course. She knew it off by rote; her husband had been killed in a car crash while she was still pregnant. She'd taken time off to look after Emma, and then accepted a position with the classics department at Duke University. It was a prestigious school, but a small one, in a fairly small city, in a place she would never have been able to pick out on a map prior to moving there. If pressed, of course, Ruth would not mention how easy it was to hide in such a place, would not mention that no one would think to look for her in America, but would instead explain that she had needed a fresh start, that she wanted Emma to grow up somewhere safe, somewhere with a little garden where she could play, somewhere warm.

It was easy enough to remember, just enough truth to make it feel real. Of course, Harry wasn't dead, and had never been hers, not truly, but she had loved him, loved him enough to die for him, to spend a few precious nights in his bed, to carry his child and raise her up on the other side of the world. And if she did not have quite so many fond memories of Harry as Cate had of her Fabian, she had enough. The warmth of him beside her as she slept, the strength of his arms as he held her; these things she recalled as clearly as if they'd only just occurred, when in truth seven long years had passed, and so much had changed.

"Do you ever think," Cate asked, closing her eyes and turning her face up to the stars as if she were sunbathing, "about finding someone new? Getting back out there?"

Ruth laughed. "No," she said honestly. "I mean, I have been out, a few times." Since coming to this place she had allowed exactly two men to take her out to dinner, and had even allowed one to come back to her bed a time or two, but it had never been serious, had never really stuck, and she wasn't particularly glum about it. She had enough on her plate, looking after Emma, planning her courses, churning out just enough articles and book reviews to keep her job. Just the thought of pursuing a relationship with a man, a relationship that would of necessity be built on lies, was enough to exhaust her.

"Was he it for you, your Harry?"

There was something very warm and very kind about Cate Durand. She was, like Ruth, not particularly tall and slightly built, though her hair was blonde and her features sharper, more aquiline. Her soft brown eyes were constantly full of understanding, of empathy, of compassion, and she had rather quickly become the single best friend that Ruth had ever had. The question she asked was gentle, not motivated by a desire to poke and prod and ferret out information but rather out of a desire to offer comfort, to convey that Cate understood precisely what Ruth's life was like, what it meant to raise a child without a partner. And Ruth rather got the sense that there was a quiet desperation beneath it, as well, that it was a question Cate had asked herself in regard to her late husband, but had yet to find the answer to.

"I don't know," Ruth said sadly, truthfully. "I don't know if there's just one person for each of us. It seems rather...absolute. I've never met anyone quite like him, though. And I don't know how I could ever possibly feel about someone else the way I felt about him."

It was Cate's turn to hum. Ruth spared a glance for the baby monitor sitting next to her; they were at present firmly entrenched in two heavy wooden armchairs on Cate's back porch, and next door Ruth's house was all in darkness. Emma had been sleeping all through the night for years now, but Ruth kept the monitor in her daughter's room and the receiver by her side, just in case. There was no activity, however, a clear indication that Emma was still sleeping deeply, for which Ruth was duly grateful. Likewise Cate had brought out her own so that she could keep an ear out for her boys, but Louis and Gabriel were mercifully quiet.

"I never felt I had to explain myself to Fabian," Cate said thoughtfully. "He always understood. Even when I was in Lebanon, when everyone told me I was mad for going, he just came with me. When Louis was born, I couldn't have asked for a more supportive partner."

They had spoken at length about their children, their pregnancies, their deliveries, and Ruth couldn't help but shudder, just a little, recalling what Cate had told her of her eldest son's birth. Louis had come nearly two months early, had nearly killed Cate in the process. _Why on earth would you put yourself through that a second time?_ Ruth had asked her one night, and Cate had just smiled. _Because I love my boys,_ she'd said.

"I don't think anyone else would ever hold a candle to him."

That was a sentiment Ruth could sympathize with whole heartedly. There was no one earth like Harry Pearce, she knew. Brave and gruff and kind and cultured, he had bulled his way into her heart, had become the one person she could lean on, when the world turned to madness around her. He had treated her softly, gently, had wooed her with his voice rich and warm as honey, with his eyes that seemed so knowing, had waited for her when she let her nerves draw her back from him, had damn near gone to prison to protect her name. She had never felt so safe as when he held her, nor had she ever felt so bereft as when she was forced to leave him standing alone and forlorn on the banks of the Thames.

The moment had grown heavy with the weight of remembered grief, and Ruth could hardly bear it. She drank down the last of her beer and reached out to pat Cate's knee affectionately.

"Right, love," Ruth said with a forced sort of joviality. "That's quite enough of that. Didn't you say your father's coming soon?"

Cate laughed. "He says he will, though God knows it wouldn't be the first time he broke a promise. Gabe's birthday is on Wednesday, and dad said he'd be flying in tomorrow. I keep waiting for him to text me and say he can't make it."

They had spoken of him, too, Cate's father, of the way he'd left his family, the damage it had done to her mother and her brother. _His job was always more important than us,_ Cate had told her. _Bastard._ This last she had added somewhat fondly, as in recent years her father had been trying his best to mend their relationship, and Cate was slowly letting him. Ruth envied her that, that chance to reconnect with her father. Ruth's own father had died when she was small, and she missed him still, more so now that she had Emma. It would have been nice, she thought, for Emma to get to know her grandparents.

"If by some miracle he does come, will you watch the boys while I go pick him up at the airport?"

"Of course," Ruth agreed at once. The drive to the airport would take a good thirty minutes, and then he would have to fight his way through customs and locate his baggage, and then of course there was always the chance that his flight would be delayed. Ruth didn't blame her friend for wanting to leave her two small children behind while she ran that particular errand. She liked Cate's boys, and she liked to see Emma playing with other children, happy and without a care. It would be no great imposition.

"Right, then," Cate said, but before she could finish that thought there came the soft sound of a child in distress from the baby monitor beside her. "That'll be Gabe," she sighed, rising out of her chair at once.

"Have a good night," Ruth said, kissing her cheek once. "Maybe he'll go right back down."

"We can hope," Cate said ruefully. Though he would be four in just a few days' time Gabe still found his way to his mother's bed more often than not; though he could hardly articulate it, Cate thought he must be missing his father, who had died in a helicopter crash in Syria the year before. What Fabian had been doing there remained a mystery, and Ruth wasn't about to ask.

She picked her way over the lawns in the darkness, sliding into her house silent as a shadow. For a moment she paused with her ear against Emma's door, but still her daughter slept, and so she smiled, and made her way to bed. It was a pleasant way to spend an evening, sharing a drink and quiet conversation with a friend, and if that friend never learned Ruth's real name, that was a small price to pay for her safety and that of her child.

Ten years ago Ruth never would have imagined herself in this position; hell, the night before the Cotterdam scandal blew wide open, when Ruth had cradled Harry in the shelter of her thighs and run her fingers through his soft blonde hair, she could never have dreamed that any of this would come to pass. And yet it had, and though it grieved her, though she had never endured such fear, such calamity, such depth of loss, she found that she was on the mend. She had a nice house, and a job she enjoyed, and a beautiful daughter she loved more than life. Ruth would be content. She could see no other option.


	2. Chapter 2

"I am glad you're here, dad," Catherine told him earnestly as she deftly navigated through the desultory Sunday afternoon traffic. His daughter wasn't looking at him, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, but Harry could see a genuine smile upon her lips, and he returned it at once. Though he'd never imagined his daughter making a life for herself here, in America, in this sleepy corner of the world beyond a tree-lined highway, she seemed content, and he was glad to share in her life, in whatever way she would allow him. The heat was oppressive, made all the worse by a startling humidity, but Catherine's car was mercifully air conditioned and Harry was comfortable enough, in his khaki trousers and lightweight white button down shirt. This was the first holiday Harry had taken in some years, and his announcement that he was going to the States had left Towers in a state of apoplectic indignation, but in the end common sense had prevailed, and he had made his way to his daughter unhindered by the political machinations of the Home Secretary.

It had been over a year since Harry had last seen his daughter and his grandsons; after Fabian's death Catherine had spent a few weeks in London, staying with her mother and stepfather while she tried to sort herself out. Though it had been somewhat awkward, stepping into Jane's house as a visitor, chatting politely to her husband, Harry had borne the indignity of it for his daughter's sake, had gone to sit beside her, to hold her hand, to offer her what comfort he could. After all, Harry knew a thing a two about a love lost too soon. True, Ruth wasn't dead, but she might as well have been, for in seven years he had not caught a glimpse of her, nor would he, ever again. They had spent a few blissful nights together and then she had been ripped from his side, lost to him for the sake of the realm, for the sake of his own pride. He did not think of her often, these days; too much time had passed, there was too much work to be getting on with, too many other losses to grieve, but those days he had spent with his daughter following her bereavement had brought Ruth back to his mind once more. He had wondered where she'd gone, if she were happy, if she ever thought of him, had asked himself how different things might have been for them, if only they'd had just a little more _time._

At present, however, his thoughts were firmly fixed on his two young grandsons. Louis was six, and Gabriel - or Gabe, as his mother insisted on calling him - would be four in just a few days' time. It had come as quite a shock, when Catherine announced she was expecting her first child; at the time she and Fabian were only recently returned from Lebanon, her leg still in a cast as she healed from the explosion that had nearly cost her her life, but when Harry, flabbergasted and taken aback by the very idea that his little girl could have a child of her own, had asked _how on earth could this have happened_ Catherine's sheepish grin had nearly been enough to bring a blush to his cheeks. He knew how it could have happened, of course, how a near death experience could push people to do all sorts of impulsive things, and he had already seen enough of his daughter and her partner together to know that they loved one another truly. They had been quite happy together, Catherine and Fabian, and while Harry's heart ached for her, to know that she had lost him so young, that her boys would grow up without a father, a small piece of him was glad to know that she had been loved so well, however briefly.

"I'm happy to be here," he said. "It'll be good to see the boys."

"It may take them some time to warm up to you," Catherine warned him, a hint of trepidation in her voice, and in truth, Harry shared those concerns. He had met his grandchildren for the very first time immediately after their father died, and their lives had been much too tumultuous - and his visits much too brief - for him to develop much of a rapport with them. Likely Gabe did not remember him at all, and Louis only vaguely. Harry had wondered whether they would be very keen to see him; he'd always been a bit awkward around children. Babies he could manage quite well, but once they grew old enough to talk he found his meager childcare skills could no longer stretch to accommodate them. What did he have to say that could possibly entertain a child? He spent his days soaked in death and terror, doing things he could not discuss as a matter of national security, and he had not participated in pop culture for decades now. His telly was only used for the news and the occasional quiz show, and he was terribly out of touch with children's programs or the sorts of things that might otherwise fascinate his grandsons. He imagined the boys would be particularly indecipherable to him after having spent a year in America, but it was too late for such concerns to stay his hand; he had come, and he would do his best, to be a good father and a good grandfather.

"That's fine," he said. " Really, Catherine, I just want to spend some time with my family. I don't have any grand expectations."

"Good," she said as she turned the car into a narrow drive beside a small, respectable-looking house on a quiet street. "This is it."

In a moment Harry was out of the car, fetching his bag from the back and then watching as his daughter led the way to her front door. The heat washed over him and sweat began to bead on his upper lip, and so he rushed to join her.

"Rachel's watching the boys," Catherine said as she let him into the house. "I imagine they're out back."

Harry raised his eyebrow at her, incredulous at the thought of anyone voluntarily spending time outside under such conditions, with the air thick and sticky, the sun blistering hot overhead. Catherine caught his look and laughed, and his heart was lighter for it, for seeing his daughter smiling again after all the grief she'd endured.

"We have a little pool," she explained. "They love it. Just drop your bag there and come and have a drink. I'll let Rachel know we're here."

Those were instructions Harry could follow with relish, and so he did as he was bid, making his way down the corridor, taking in the sight of his daughter's house. There were artistic looking photographs on the walls and children's toys piled in the corners, and the corridor opened into a bright kitchen, painted a cheery shade of yellow. Wide windows let in the sunlight (and a fair bit of heat), but the house was cool enough, and through those windows he could see lush green grass and a line of huge, gnarled old trees forming the perimeter of her back garden. The location might have left something to be desired, but it seemed a pleasant house, and a nice place for his grandsons to grow up.

Catherine leaned out the backdoor and shouted something unintelligible, probably a greeting to her neighbor who had been kind enough to watch the boys. That had given Harry pause, at first, the thought of his grandchildren being left in the hands of such a casual acquaintance, but Catherine had set him straight in that regard, explained that her neighbor was in fact a colleague and a fellow single mum, and his natural paranoia receded somewhat. Not everyone's life was as rife with deception as his own, he knew, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

"Now," Catherine said, swinging back into the kitchen. "How about a drink? Gin and tonic?"

Harry made a face, some quip about preferring a real drink almost slipping past his lips, but he bit it back at once. For all her attempts to appear collected and cool he knew that Catherine was nervous about him staying with her and the boys, uncertain as to how things would go, whether they would survive a week without killing one another, and he knew that she was trying her best to be hospitable. Her offer had been a kind one, and it was after all really bloody hot outside.

"That would be fine, thanks," he said graciously.

She smiled at him once, sharply, in a way that let him know that she was well aware what he had been thinking, and he turned away from her, his heart feeling lighter than it had done in months. Lucas and Ros were manning the Grid, his mobile was switched off, and he had one whole blissful week in which to enjoy simply being a father, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. Relaxation did not come easily to him, but he was confident that with Catherine's help he would manage well enough.

A whirlwind in the form of two small boys came tearing through the kitchen door before Catherine finished making their drinks; she sent them off to their rooms to change their clothes while they dripped water on the floor, laughing with one another and paying Harry no mind. It didn't bother him overmuch, their apparent disinterest in him; they had a week to get to know one another, and he would not ask more from them than they were willing to give.

"They seem happy," he said softly, but before Catherine could respond the door was opening once again.

* * *

Having bundled the boys inside to go and say hello to their grandfather Ruth followed along at a much more sedate pace, carrying a tray littered with the remnants of lemonade and snacks she'd given to the boys while they played. Emma had been invited at the last minute to spend the afternoon with one of her little friends from school, and so Ruth had been alone with the boys for the last two hours or so. She didn't mind, really, losing the opportunity for a quiet afternoon alone; Louis and Gabe were sweet, and she had fun, splashing with them in the little pool, playing silly games and listening to their chatter. That was the thing about being a mother, she'd realized; she often dreamed of having a moment to herself, just a little time to spend alone, but the instant she was without her child she missed Emma something fierce. The quiet she had once treasured was now oppressive without the sound of her daughter's gentle laughter.

Juggling the tray and the door knob she managed to swing the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

"We had a lovely afternoon," she said, kicking the door closed, but before Cate could answer her Ruth's eyes landed on the stranger in the kitchen.

" _Jesus_ ," she swore, nearly jumping out of her skin. The tray tumbled from her hands, the lemonade glasses shattering on the floor, her heart suddenly racing so fast that black spots swam across her vision. A terrible, choking little sound left her next, tears and fears and hopes threatening to drown her, for of all the people who could have been standing in that kitchen, the very last one she had ever expected to see was Harry Pearce.

Through the fog that swirled through her mind a few details struck her; the lines of his face, the way his shirt collar opened to expose his neck, the way his hands reached for her all unthinking. This was _Harry,_ the one man she had not dreamed to ever see again, the one who had so indelibly changed her life, left his mark upon her heart forever. The questions would come in time, the _hows_ and the _whys_ and the _what the bloody hell do we nows_ , but in that moment her went almost totally blank, simply staring at him, soaking in the sight of his face, the soaring of her heart in her chest, the wonder that such a thing could come to pass.

* * *

"We had a lovely afternoon," a melodic voice called as the door swung open once again, and Harry felt the sudden sting of shock as sharp as if he'd been struck across the face, for he knew that voice, better than any other in the world, and he had not dared dream to ever hear it again.

" _Jesus,"_ she swore, giving a starled little jump, the tray she carried clattering to the floor as she lifted one hand to stare at him in wide-eyed horror.

" _Christ,"_ Harry said at almost the exact same moment, taking a single, involuntarily step towards her, his hands reaching for her as if of their own volition before he remembered himself and drew back.

 _This is a dream,_ he thought faintly. Ruth was _gone,_ had left him all alone so many years before, and he had, before this moment, been resigned to the loss of her. Now, though, now he ached for her, his eyes devouring her hungrily, the curve of her hip, the curl of her dark hair. This was _Ruth,_ real and here and shaking from head to foot, obviously as overwhelmed and utterly blown away by his appearance as he was by hers. It seemed a gift too beautiful to be real, that he should find her quite by accident, that she could be standing here, wearing a soft white shift over a black swimsuit, her hair damp from the pool, the color high in her cheeks. She was alive, and here, and he had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

* * *

" _Jesus -"_

" _Christ,"_ they swore almost in unison, and Catherine looked up from the drinks, wondering what on earth could have caused such a commotion from two so normally even-keeled individuals.

Rachel and her father were staring at one another, frozen in a somewhat comical standoff like something from a bad western. There were tears in Rachel's eyes, Catherine saw, and she found herself suddenly overwhelmed with dread. She turned her head, and saw that there was an expression on her father's face she'd never seen before, never even imagined, a look that spoke of a depth of emotion she would never have previously ascribed to that reserved and somewhat repressed old man. There was a familiarity to their gaze, a sense of recognition that turned Catherine's blood to ice in a moment.

All her life she had hated her father's job and everything that went with it, the lies, the secrecy, the betrayals, the smug patronizing of the spooks, all of them so certain that they knew best, all of them so proud of their classified lives, though those same lives were devoid of warmth and affection as far as Catherine could see. But in the instant immediately following Rachel's appearance it became readily apparent that this woman she trusted, cared for, counted her best friend in all the world, was one of _them._ That truth was bitter, and Catherine could already feel her heart beginning to harden, her mind racing as she wondered whether her whole life here had been a setup, carefully arranged by her meddling father.

But then, oh then, something happened that turned her world completely upside down.

"Harry," Rachel breathed in a broken little whisper, her eyes full of tears, and the memory of a hundred quiet conversations crashed in on Catherine all at once.

How many times had she sat and listened to Rachel speaking fondly of _my Harry,_ the man she had loved, the man she had lost, the man who had fathered her child? _My Harry..._

"Oh, _shit,"_ Catherine swore.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a roaring in Catherine's ears loud as a fighter plane, the beat of her heart fast and furious as a drum. _This can't be happening,_ she thought faintly, but no, Rachel was standing there, trembling, her eyes locked Catherine's father, who for his part appeared too stunned to speak. _A bloody spook. She's a bloody spook._ Catherine's eyes darted back and forth between the pair of them, a million questions churning their way through the fog of her disbelief to overwhelm her all at once. Before she could find her voice, however, the boys came tearing into the kitchen and shattered the tense silence that had fallen since Rachel's arrival and the subsequent disaster.

"Mum?" Louis asked, clearly confused as he skidded to a halt near the counter, surprised to find himself surrounded by so many grownups who were paying him absolutely no attention.

Whatever this was, whatever had just happened, Catherine was determined not to leave that room until she had the truth from someone. That would be rather hard to do with her boys underfoot, and she was presently so angry with her father that she could hardly look at him, and so she decided to dispense with all three of those distractions in one go.

"You remember your granddad, don't you, Louis?" she said. Her father offered the boy a weak little smile, but that did nothing to soothe Catherine's ire. "Why don't you and your brother go watch telly with Granddad? I'll be along in a minute."

"Catherine," her father started to protest, but a sharp look from her stilled his tongue. He knew when he'd been beaten, but he likewise seemed hesitant to leave Rachel's side.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," Rachel said softly, and the way she spoke his name, warm and sad and full of yearning, did more to prove Catherine's suspicions than anything that had occurred thus far. She could not recall ever once hearing anyone, not even her own mother, say his name with such want, such affection, such dire sorrow, and though she suspected she knew the cause of it she could hardly believe it possible, that _Rachel,_ sweet, level-headed Rachel, could ever once have looked at the old man with such depth of feeling. Across the room he pursed his lips together, but then gave a little nod and retreated to the sitting room with the boys in tow, apparently satisfied with Rachel's promise. Catherine rounded on her friend in a moment, determined to get some answers.

* * *

Watching Harry leave, even knowing that it was only temporary, knowing that she would have another chance to speak to him, to whisper softly every thought and every hope she'd harbored for the last seven years, was nearly enough to break Ruth's heart afresh. He was _here_ , somehow, by some miracle she could not fathom, and she was so bloody grateful to see him she could have wept with sheer relief. _Harry._ How impossible that seemed. Ruth had long since given up any hope of seeing him again, had tried to form her life afresh without him at the very heart of it. Some days she watched her daughter playing or cradled her close to sing a little lullaby and felt grief sharp and fierce rolling over her, to think of all that Harry was missing, to think of how different her life might have been but for those terrible August days a lifetime before. And some days she convinced herself that she was fine, that whatever feelings she'd harbored for Harry were still in their infancy, and that she was grateful for her comfortable life and her beautiful little girl, that she was content to live without drowning in regret. Now, though, seeing him again, standing there in that kitchen broad and warm and real, close enough for her to reach out and touch him if she dared, brought back every doubt, every question, left her anxious for answers and utterly untethered.

Cate had dispatched him quite neatly and was currently standing on the other side of the room all but vibrating with anger, and Ruth knew that no matter how badly she wished to tear after Harry, to fold herself in his arms and weep, she had to face her friend first. She owed Cate the truth, as much of it as she could give; Ruth treasured her friendship, and she was desperately worried about how Cate might have interpreted this little scene, given what she knew of Ruth's - Rachel's - history. _Oh Christ,_ she thought, remembering the way Cate had sworn, _does she know? Has she guessed? What on earth am I going to tell her?_ Ruth turned to face her, and found two eyes hard and flinty watching her like a hawk.

"Tell me right now," Cate hissed once Harry and the boys had departed. "Did you have any idea-"

"No, Cate," Ruth answered at once. "Believe me, I didn't know."

"Why on earth should I believe _you?_ " Cate asked, and the iciness of her tone reminded Ruth all at once of how Catherine had spoken of her father to Danny, how she had loathed his job, how furious she'd been to discover that her father had been meddling in her affairs. How cross must she be, to think their friendship no more than a ruse? How could Ruth ever hope to reclaim her trust, now that this piece of her identity had been revealed? Nearly everything about Ruth's life in this place was a lie, but her friendship with Cate had always been genuine, and she could not bear the thought of losing it.

"I was there," Ruth began, wincing as she saw Cate draw in a sharp breath, her anger only growing, "during the November Committee fiasco. I only ever saw photos of you, and it was a long time ago. I knew that Harry had a daughter called Catherine Townsend. You told me your name was Cate Durand, and I believed you. I never thought, even for a moment, that you were his daughter. If I'd known-"

"What? What would you have done if you'd known?" Cate snapped.

"I would have moved," Ruth answered simply. It was the truth, stark and sad though it might have been. If there had been any chance of Ruth being connected to her old life she would have fled in a moment, for the sake of her safety and that of her daughter. Now that Harry was here, perhaps everything would change, or perhaps it wouldn't. Maybe he could save her, or maybe she would have to pack her things and run like hell for a new life in another country, another town, another world entirely. Ruth couldn't not say, and that uncertainty left her reeling.

It did not appear to be the answer Cate was expecting, for her posture relaxed infinitesimally, and she heaved a great sigh.

"What a bloody mess," Cate said.

A strangled, choking sound that might have been a laugh passed Ruth's lips, and she covered her mouth with her hand, desperately trying to think of something to say to ease the weight of the moment. It was _such_ a mess; for months now Ruth had been living right next door to Harry's bloody daughter, of all people, a tether to the life she'd left behind, a means of contacting him, of discerning her fate, but rather than grasping on to that lifeline she'd been left all in darkness. For months now Cate had been playing with Emma, and all the while she'd been blissfully unaware that Ruth's daughter was in fact her little sister. The sudden realization of the connection between Emma and Cate had Ruth collapsing into a chair at once; _oh, god,_ she thought, _they're bloody sisters_. She propped her elbows on the table, buried her face in her hands, and tried valiantly not to weep.

"Did he know?" Cate demanded after a moment.

Ruth shook her head, turning slightly so that they could still one another. "No," she said firmly.

"How can you possibly-"

"It was vital that no one knew where I was. Even Harry. I haven't spoken to him in seven years."

 _Seven years._ Such a bloody long time, to go without a single word of news of him. Such a long time to worry, every time she scoured the news, that something dreadful had happened to him, and she was too far away to stop it. Such a long time to watch her daughter growing, and know that Harry would never experience the joy of holding Emma in his arms.

There came the soft sound of footsteps, and then Cate was folding herself into the chair next to Ruth. Some of the anger seemed to have left her. Perhaps she believed what Ruth had told her, perhaps she was moved by the thought of Ruth having to leave her whole life behind, or perhaps she was simply becoming accustomed to the situation. Whatever the reason, Ruth was grateful that she wasn't shouting.

"What about Emma?"

The question was quiet, but it cut Ruth to the quick. What about Emma, her darling little girl, with her father's hazel eyes, with all her questions? What about Emma, who believed her father to be dead? What about Emma, whose father was now sitting just a few feet away, utterly unaware of her existence?

"No," Ruth breathed. It broke her heart to admit it, but she owed Cate the truth. "He doesn't know."

"She is his, though?" Cate pressed her, looking faintly horrified.

Ruth just nodded.

" _Jesus,"_ Cate swore in disbelief. "How could he not know?"

They were getting dangerously close to answers Ruth could not - would not - give; for Cate's own safety, the less she knew about the events that had sent Ruth fleeing from her home, the better. And the less Cate knew about her father's romantic entanglements the happier they all would be; Ruth imagined it would be awkward enough for her as it was, discovering that he'd fathered a child with a woman Cate considered a friend. How much uncomfortable would she be if she were forced to sit and listen to Ruth speaking softly of the love they bore one another, the reckless nights they'd spent in one another's arms, too lost in bliss to consider even for a moment the possible consequences of their actions? It was a delicate subject, and Ruth did her best to tread softly.

"I didn't know I was pregnant when I...left," she began carefully. "And once I was gone, he absolutely could not know where I was. What do you think he would have done, if he knew that I had his child?"

To Ruth's surprise, Cate smiled at her, softly, ruefully. "I imagine he would have burned the whole world down just to find you," she said. "He's a shit father, most of the time, but we could always count him for the important things."

"He loves you so much, Catherine," Ruth said, reaching out impulsively to rest her hand against Cate's on the table top. "He always has done."

"I know," Cate said, but there was no smile in her now. She ran her fingers through her hair the way Ruth had noticed she sometimes did when she was upset or thoughtful, buying herself a moment to ponder her next words before she spoke. Ruth waited for those words with bated breath, deeply worried that though the mood had lightened somewhat between them the storm was not yet passed.

"Is it dangerous, being around you? Knowing who you are? Should I be worried about my boys?"

"You don't know who I am," Ruth pointed out as gently she could. So far she had not revealed her name or the truth of her previous occupation, had allowed Catherine to proceed on assumption alone. Those assumptions had been near enough to the truth, but she wasn't sure how long they would sustain Catherine before she began to ask for more.

"You're a spook," Cate said. "What more do I need to know?"

"That'll do for now," Harry's voice cut in softly from the entryway to the kitchen.

A little gasp escaped Ruth at the sound of his voice; she couldn't stop it. His presence here left her reeling, and with every second that passed she felt her longing to go to him, to talk to him, to let him hold her, to work through this problem together they way they had always done in the past only grew. He had meant everything to her, once, had finished her sentences, had given her strength and courage, had taught her how to survive, and in this moment when she felt so lost she could not help but the think that the only person on earth who could save her from her own clamorous thoughts was Harry.

How much of their conversation had he heard? Ruth knew she had to tell him about Emma, and soon, but she wanted to do that herself, in private, wanted to tell him everything about their little girl, the light she'd brought to Ruth's life, how Ruth had always dreamed of introducing them one day. Harry deserved to hear the truth from her lips, not to discover it only from eavesdropping on her conversation, and to her great relief his face appeared far too calm for him to have overheard that part of the discussion. She was certain that if he knew he would have rushed to her side already, and so she gave thanks for small mercies.

"I have signed the Official Secrets Act, Dad," Cate pointed out, and Ruth flinched at the sound of her friend referring to her former lover in such a way. The uncomfortable truth was that Ruth was barely ten years older than Catherine, closer in age to her than to Harry, and she had never felt the weight of those years more keenly than in that moment.

Her eyes darted around the kitchen, looking for a safe place to land, trying to marshal her thoughts, but then she caught sight of the clock, and swore. It was nearly time for her to go and pick up Emma, loath as she was to leave this place, to leave Harry. She could not linger a moment longer, and the rest of their conversation would have to wait until later. She had no idea how to fix this, how to even begin to unpick it all, but she had responsibilities she could not ignore.

"I have to go," she said softly to Cate, and Harry was moving towards her in a moment, a look of abject terror upon his face. Though she hated to see him so upset that look gave her hope, for if he did not truly want her to leave, then perhaps there might be some way to salvage things between them, some chance that all was not lost.

"I'm coming back," she told him firmly. "There's just something I need to do first."

He offered her one of those Harry smiles, lips pressed tight together but eyes warm and soft. Her own heart was too heavy for smiles, but she was grateful for his, grateful to know that he had not completely forgotten her, forgotten what she had meant to him, once.

* * *

And just like that she was gone, before he'd had a chance to hold her, to tell her how he'd missed her, how he'd longed for her, how bloody happy he was to see her again. Seven years of thinking that she was out of his life forever, that he would never again hear the gentle sound of her voice, feel the warmth of her hands upon his skin, had vanished like smoke the instant he saw her face. He had loved her once, or perhaps he still did, for he had found that love was like malaria, always lingering beneath the skin, never truly cured. The time would have changed her, surely, all those years spent in hiding, doing her best to protect herself, losing herself slowly beneath the weight of her legend. Would he know her now, as he had done before? Already he could see little differences in her, the confident tilt of her chin, the careful measured words she used so different from the uncertain, often babbling girl she'd been before. He hoped she had not lost all her enthusiasm, all her limitless passion, her eager curiosity for the world around her. He hoped that whoever Rachel was, some piece of Ruth remained.

He would have to ponder the mystery of Ruth and who she had become some other time, however, for his daughter was watching him through narrowed eyes.

"Who is she?" Catherine asked the moment she was gone.

Harry just stared at her, wondering how on earth he was supposed to answer such a question, particularly given the fact that it was his daughter who was staring at him, demanding access to this piece of his soul he'd hidden away for the last seven years. _Who is she? I do not know, any more,_ he thought glumly. _She was my very heart for a time, and now she is a stranger. She is a ghost, Catherine. She is a dream from which I woke too soon._

"A friend," he said at last. Yes, technically, he could have told Catherine the truth, for she was already sworn to secrecy and his flesh and blood besides, but still he was determined not to tell her everything. What they had done, in arranging Ruth's death, bringing low Oliver Mace and his terrible plot, had itself been illegal, no matter how noble their intentions, and he did not want Catherine to be party to that conspiracy. At least not now, when Ruth remained for all intents and purposes a corpse; his mind was already racing, wondering if this might be the moment when he could finally have her reinstated. He had not done it sooner because he truly believed it would be safest for her if she were left to make her own life in anonymity, safe from his world of shadows. Now, however, he had seen her again, had taken note of the desperation in her eyes, and he was quite suddenly convinced that he must do all he could to give her back her name, to bring her home. She was not like Zoe, who had been lawfully convicted on evidence presented to a court; her downfall had been of their own making, and having orchestrated her death he was certain that there must be some way for him to bring about her rebirth.

"Dad-"

"She worked with me, for a time. You know what that means?"

"I know she's a bloody spook," Catherine grumbled. "What I want to know is, why is she here? What did she do? She seems so...harmless."

Harry smiled, somewhat sadly. Of course she seemed that way to Catherine; Ruth had always possessed a special talent for fading into the wallpaper, her intellect staggering but quiet, her beauty so unassuming. Everyone always seemed to underestimate her; even Harry had done, for a time, before she showed him that she had steel in her bones and a fire in her blood. She was radiant, his Ruth, precious to him beyond most anyone else save his family, but though he wanted to sing her praises he held his tongue for the sake of his daughter's bitter heart and their own somewhat precarious circumstances.

He was spared having to provide any sort of response by the arrival of his grandsons, asking for their supper. Any more questions would have to wait, until they were put to bed, until Ruth returned. Though he was anxious for that meeting he did his best to speak softly to the boys, to win them round, for they were the whole reason he'd come to this place to begin with. Finding Ruth had been an unexpected bonus, but he would not neglect his grandchildren, even for her sake.


	4. Chapter 4

She was there, just _there_ , in the house next door. Harry could see lights shining behind soft white curtains, could every now and then discern the movement of a shadow passing from one room to another. _Ruth,_ alive, blessedly safe, living in the house next door, as impossible as that seemed. She had promised him that she wasn't leaving, that she would come back, that they would talk, but it had been hours, and the sun had set, and there had been no word from her. Catherine watched him, petulant and uncertain, as the minutes passed, but they were chaperoned by her children, unable to discuss the dramatic situation in which they'd found themselves. She was upset, he knew, furious at the thought of having been duped into feeling any sort of affection for one of her father's colleagues, a spook and a liar, when she had spent all her life railing against them. Nevermind that he had been telling the truth when he assured her that he'd had no idea that Ruth was here, when he swore to his own shock; his daughter did not trust him easily.

Now the boys were asleep and Harry was left standing on his daughter's back porch, staring out across the garden and watching the house next door, thinking about the woman who lived there, the forces of fate that had brought them to this place, her in that fine house, and him standing here, watching, waiting. There were so many things he wanted to ask her; how she'd come to be here, how she had gone so long without realizing who Catherine was, how she had fared during the long dark years of her exile, whether she wanted to come home. He wanted to ask her forgiveness for his oversight in not clearing her name; he had believed at the time that it was for the best, that Ruth was lost to him and he ought to resolve himself to that fact and let her build a life of her own making, but now he was not so sure. Now he had looked upon her, her soft, dark hair longer than it had been before, her face more lined, her eyes still bluer than any he'd ever seen, the curve of her hip still begging for the touch of his hand, and he had known that he was wrong to believe he could ever put her from his mind. Perhaps they would never again recapture the momentary sanctuary they'd found in one another's arms, perhaps they would never reach the full potential for love and devotion the moments they'd stolen in one another's arms had promised them so very long ago, perhaps he would find her so very changed - or himself so very changed - that they could hardly speak to one another, but he could not deny that his heart cried out for her, that what he wanted, more than anything in that moment, was to sit beside her and let the warmth of her voice wash over him in soothing waves.

"I'm still cross with you," Catherine said - crossly - as she came to stand beside him, her eyes likewise seeking out the house next door. It must have been so strange for her, Harry knew, to learn that her dearest friend was a stranger; Catherine was rather unaccustomed to such betrayals and changes of course. For Harry, this was nothing out of the ordinary, for in the world which he inhabited no one was who said they were, but Catherine was a gentle girl, a woman who believed in humanity and a load of other bollocks that Harry did not put very much store in. He smiled, still, because he loved her, because he loved her heart and her passion, because she was kind, because she was his daughter, and despite the many long years that had passed with nothing but silence between them they were now standing side-by-side, each of them holding a glass of wine, in the home that she had made with her children sleeping just upstairs.

"I am immensely proud of you, you know," he answered.

It was a bit of a leap, from her chiding to his confession, and she turned to him sharply, frowning, as if she couldn't quite work out what he'd said or why he'd said it.

"I mean it," he said. "You've built a good life here."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously in an expression so reminiscent of her mother he couldn't help but laugh, and the sound of that laugh seemed to soothe some of her ire. Not all of it, certainly, but her shoulders relaxed and she took a long sip of her wine.

"I can't believe you," Catherine told him, her voice still disapproving though it lacked some of the heat that had filled her earlier in the day. "You slept with her, didn't you?"

Harry stared at his daughter, aghast. It was one thing, to admit that Ruth was one of his agents, that she had served Queen and country well and faithfully and been left with nothing to show for it but her obituary in an Essex newspaper and an empty grave. It was something else altogether to admit that he had loved her, fiercely, that he had been fully prepared to give away his freedom and his life for her, that he would gladly have killed for her, that he had delighted in trailing his fingertips along the length of her spine, that she had pressed soft kisses to every scar on his body. He knew how this must look to Catherine, how mismatched and inappropriate a pair they must make to her eyes. He would be sixty in just a few months, and Ruth was much too young for him and Catherine's dear friend besides. But still, Catherine had somehow guessed at the truth, and he did not know how on earth he was meant to explain this to her. They had gone nearly a decade without speaking at all, and though their relationship was warmer now than it had been for some time he still looked at her and saw a child, a little girl he needed to protect from himself as much as from the dangers of the world.

He turned away from her, a little huff passing his lips as he stared up at Ruth's house and wondered how on earth it had come to this. The last thing he wanted was to discuss his sexual history or the longings of his heart with his daughter, but he had made a promise, long ago, that he would not lie to her. He would omit the truth in places, and allow her to believe in her own inaccurate assumptions, but he would not willfully lie. A question had been asked, and it must be answered, however uncomfortable it might make him.

"I cared for her," he said, the words passing his lips painfully slowly, for in truth he had never been particularly good at giving voice to his feelings, at revealing his weakness and vulnerability to another. "Very much."

He could not say anything else. He could not tell Catherine how he had taken Ruth to dinner and then back to her home, how she had led him slowly up the stairs in her little house, how they had wound themselves in and around one another. How she had broken things off with him for the sake of his reputation, and he had followed her home that very night and stood on her front steps until at last she let him inside, how he had cajoled her with hands and gentle words, how he had set her mind to rest and assured her that this thing between them was too important to be cast aside, how they might protect themselves from prying eyes. How one morning she had woken in his bed, all soft hands and sleep-roughened voice, and left him so that she might take the train into work, so that no one might know they had spent the night together, only for her to witness a man's death and set off a chain of events that tore her from him, forever. He could not tell her the hopes he had harbored, for himself and for Ruth, and how his heart had broken, the day those hopes were shattered. He could not tell her of the terrible, wonderful suspicion he harbored in his heart.

But Catherine knew him all too well, and in those few words she had discerned a world of meaning, and when she looked at him now her eyes were soft and sad, telling him that she understood just how great a confession he had made to her.

The moment was broken by the ringing of her mobile; it was a short conversation, and when it was finished she was looking at him uncertainly once more.

"Rachel's asked for you to come round," she told him. "Just walk round the back, she'll meet you there."

Harry nodded, and took a deep breath. He had been waiting for this for hours, for years, and he would not put off this conversation a moment longer.

* * *

Ruth held her breath, as she watched the dark figure approaching through the darkness. It was another hot, sticky night, and her hands trembled so badly that she was forced to abandon her beer bottle for fear that she might drop it. Emma was fast asleep, and the time had come for her to face Harry, finally. She had no idea how this conversation would go, what she could possibly say to him, what he must think of her after all this time, but the longing to see him manifested itself as a physical ache in her chest. They would sit here together, outside, despite the heat, for she knew that he need only take one step inside her house to discover that she had a child, and a thousand questions would surely spill out of him. While Ruth knew that she must tell Harry the truth she was determined to do so herself, in her own way, and she would not have him find out by accident. Far better to suffer the heat for a little while than to begin this reconciliation with anger and misunderstandings.

But then he was there, his features slowly resolving themselves in the feeble light of her porch, the darkness casting heavy shadows upon his dear face. He was still handsome, her Harry, his hair a bit longer and a bit thinner than she recalled, curling softly at the nape of his neck, his clothes more casual than any she had ever seen him in before, not counting of course the long mornings they had spent together in his house with him in nothing but a bathrobe and her in nothing but one of his old shirts. It seemed a lifetime ago, the beautiful days of the ill-fated love affair; Ruth had spent so long playing at being a widow that she had almost forgotten what it was like, the way she felt when he stood beside her. The adrenaline, the hope, the doubt, the longing; it all swirled round and round inside her, left her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth, no words coming to her as she stared at him, thinking only how incredible it was that he should find his way to her so unexpectedly, how terrified she was of what must surely come next.

"Ruth," he said her name softly, and the sound of it, the warmth of his tone, the fact that no one had called her by her true name for seven long years, caused something deep inside her heart to snap free. She wanted, very much, to go to him, to wrap her arms around his middle, to bury her face against his chest, to let him hold her, but it had been so long, so very long, and she no longer knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She swayed towards him, as desire and prudence battled within her, and his hand twitched by his side as if he likewise wanted to reach out and touch her, but in the end they both resisted, and kept their distance.

"Please," she said, turning away from him, and they both settled down together in plastic lawn chairs, sitting side-by-side and staring straight ahead, neither daring to glance at the other while silence settled upon them heavy as a blanket and oppressive as the night. Her thoughts were racing; there were so many things she wanted to tell him she could hardly determine where to begin, and she felt the babbling torrent of words building up in the back of her throat in a way they had not done since she was young and just starting out on the Grid, eager to prove herself to this handsome man whose opinion of her mattered more than any other. He saved her from herself, the way he always did, leading their conversation along gently.

"You seem happy here, Ruth," he said, and she could not help the way her heart fluttered in her chest each time he spoke her name. _Christ,_ but she had missed it, had missed hearing it from him most of all. Before her exile she had never before realized just how much her name mattered to her, how much she treasured her identity, how much it warmed her heart to hear him speak it, to watch him treat this piece of her so gently, so reverently.

"I am," she answered simply. She could tell him more, how work at the university was interesting and the pay was good and the neighborhood was safe and Emma was comfortable, but she held back, more guarded now than she had been before. Ruth had learned the dangers of a loose tongue and formed a wall around herself, and though she wanted, very much, to allow Harry to breach those defenses she could not quite relax. Her skin seemed to buzz with electricity, her eyes wide open and gazing into the night, her ears turned the sound of Harry's gentle breathing and the calling of the cicadas in the trees. She had not been wary and watchful, before, but those qualities had saved her life, and she could not shake them now.

"And you truly didn't know, about Catherine?"

Ruth shook her head, a rueful little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. As difficult as it was to believe, she really had not known, and now she counted herself a fool for not realizing it sooner.

"Are you going to tell me about your child?"

It was as if the very breath vanished from her lungs; her whole body tensed, her lips opening and closing soundlessly, her heart racing, the blood thrumming through her veins roaring loud as flood waters in her ears. She turned to stare at him incredulously, terrified and heartsick and taken aback. _How?_ She asked herself as he returned her frantic stare with a rather cool one of his own; _how does he know? What did Cate tell him? Oh, god, forgive me, Harry._


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps it was unkind, to ask her such a question so abruptly, so crassly, so soon into their reunion, but Harry had done it anyway, for two very different reasons. The first was that he had been too long a spy, was too well trained at interrogation, and he knew that in order to get to the truth one must put the opponent on the back foot, quickly, leave them scrambling, give them no time to come up with a lie - or at least, not one that would hold up under further scrutiny. The second, far less pragmatic, reason was that he simply could not hold it in a moment longer. At first he had been so utterly floored by her arrival in Catherine's kitchen that he could hardly think, overwhelmed with a flood of hope and longing, his thoughts an endless chorus of _Ruth, Ruth, Ruth._ But as the hours passed, without her luminous eyes there to distract him, he had regained his composure and slowly all the implications of Ruth's relationship with Catherine had begun to sink in. Catherine had told him of Rachel, that she had likewise lost a husband, that she was raising up a child on her own, and that truth had struck Harry hard as a fist. _She has a little girl,_ Catherine had told him in the car, _about the same age as the boys._

That little piece of information, more than anything else, had set his head to spinning. He wanted to know exactly how old this little girl was; Louis had been born seven or eight months after Cotterdam, and Gabe two years later. If Ruth's daughter was the same age as Louis, it stood to reason Harry could very well have been her father. If she was the same age as Gabe, well, that would mean that Ruth had found someone new, forged a life all her own, a little family that was no business of Harry's at all. The two possibilities were equally terrifying, though for very different reasons.

He watched her now, thinking ruefully that it wasn't very often Ruth Evershed found herself lost for words. Sometimes she would stammer, her words catching on themselves as she struggled to order her thoughts, and sometimes she would babble, an endless stream of facts and figures - not always relevant to the subject at hand - pouring out of her so thick and fast he could hardly keep up. This silence was different, not the calm, peaceful stillness he had so often enjoyed with this woman as they sat together of an evening, but something altogether more tense, more daunting. It was the silence of a woman who had learned to hold her tongue, and he shuddered to think what she must have endured over the last seven years that would have turned his passionate, eager Ruth into a woman of restraint and defensiveness.

It was hard to make out much of her expression, in the meager light of her porch. Her eyes shone at him, blue and brilliant as ever, her full lips parted as she weighed her words, and he could not help but wonder, briefly, if he'd overstepped the mark. _Who is she,_ he wanted to ask, _this girl of yours? Where did she come from, Ruth? Tell me, please, tell me._

He'd been thinking about it for hours now, the possibility that Ruth's daughter was his child. It had never occurred to him, in the quiet days before the sanctuary they had built for themselves came crumbling down, that they might make a family together. Their lives were too uncertain, too perilous, the pair of them wholly devoted to that most demanding mistress, their beloved realm. They worked long hours, had precious few friends, were often times in danger. Though Ruth was young and lovely and though he had watched her, sometimes, with the younger analysts and fresh field agents and thought how well she mothered them, he had never for a moment considered that she might one day be the mother of his own child. He was much too old to go starting a new family; Catherine was thirty-three, with two children of her own, and Harry's sixtieth birthday was fast approaching. He could not say, with any certainty, how many years he had left, and he would never have chosen to bring a child into the world knowing that he would inevitably leave them far too soon.

And yet, now that it seemed there was a very good chance he had done exactly that, he could not stop thinking about how wonderful it could be - truly, undeniably wonderful - to have another child, a child with _Ruth._ A little girl with her mother's blue eyes and serious face, a living, breathing manifestation of the love he had felt for this woman once, a love that had lain dormant for so many years but had once been strong enough for both of them to throw away their lives for the sake of it. A little girl to hold in his arms, to read to, to love, as he loved her mother, as he loved Catherine and Graham, fiercely and without reservation. What did she look like, this girl Ruth had carried in the shelter of her own body, this child she had raised all on her own, despite the terrible danger and uncertainty of her circumstances? And did it matter, truly, what he longed for, what he wanted, when Ruth was still technically dead and they had not even spoken to one another in so very long? Had Ruth meant to keep her from him, was she even now cursing him for having discovered her secret? He did not know, and with every second that passed he became more concerned, marshaling his arguments should this turn into one of those rare occasions in which he and Ruth disagreed.

She saved him from himself and his own furious thoughts, in the end, his brilliant Ruth. She took a very deep breath and turned away from him as if she could hardly bear to make such a confession with his eyes upon her, and stared out into the darkness as she spoke.

"I was going to tell you, Harry," she began slowly. "You know me better than that."

And of course, he did. This was _Ruth,_ after all, Ruth who was good and kind and strong as steel, and he should have remembered that, should have trusted that no matter how much time had changed or how circumstances conspired against her she would still remain true. She had been his moral compass, once, had guided him through thorny dilemmas and moments of doubt with a kind of certainty he could never hope to possess. Of course she would not have kept such a secret from him, and he was left feeling rather ashamed for having doubted her. Still, though, he did not speak, did not apologize, was left all but mute as he waited with bated breath to hear the rest of her tale.

"I have a daughter," Ruth continued, after a moment. "Her name is Emma."

"Emma," Harry mused aloud. It was a good name, he thought, a sweet name, one that conjured for him an image of a child who was Ruth in perfect miniature, a child who already filled his heart with hope. Even if she was not his, truly, she was _Ruth's_ , and he wanted to know everything about her. "How very Jane Austen of you, Ruth."

It was a feeble attempt at humor, but even in the darkness he could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Ruth's full lips. She had a fondness for Austen, he knew, had read them all a dozen times, took a childlike glee in watching every film adaptation. _I get lost in the setting,_ she'd told him once, _the houses and the dresses and the lives so different from our own. I like that they're stories about women, told by a woman; this world could use more of that sort of thing, if you ask me._ He remembered that detail, as he remembered most everything about her, and he could tell that she was pleased.

There was still a question looming heavy and unspoken between them, and loath as he was to bring it up, to so crudely demand that she account for herself and her personal life, he was all but perishing with the need to know.

"How old is she?" he asked when no further information was forthcoming from Ruth, and next to him he watched that fond smile turn wry in a moment.

"Ask me what you really want to know, Harry," she said softly.

He wanted to grumble, to call her a stubborn old mule, but he could hardly find his voice. So long as he did not speak he would be allowed the grace to linger in this moment where Emma _might_ be his daughter, rather than emerge into a darker world where she belonged to someone else entirely, where Ruth's path had diverged so completely from his own. He had to know, he desperately wanted to know, but he could hardly bear the thought of losing the hope this possibility brought to him.

Still, though, he could not remain silent forever, and so he straightened in his chair, and spoke.

"Ruth," he said, wishing she would look at him, wishing he could reach out and take her hand in his own without seeming crass or overly-familiar, "is she…"

It was as if Ruth had heard his silent plea, for she turned to him then, tears standing in the corners of her eyes, and he did not finish his question for he saw the answer writ large across her face.

"Yes, Harry," she said softly. "She's your daughter."

* * *

For a moment Ruth was irrationally afraid that her words had caused Harry to suffer some sort of a stroke, for his mouth fell open and his hands twitched where he clasped them together in his lap. This was not the way she had intended to break the news to him; it had been in her mind to hope that they might talk a little while longer, that they might grow more comfortable together, that she might be given a chance to discern how the years had changed him before she dropped this bombshell into his life, but Harry had forced her hand, and now he appeared too stunned to speak.

The silence between them was made oppressive beneath the weight of Ruth's anxiety. They had never discussed it, before, the possibility of having a child, beyond one very brief conversation during which Ruth had assured Harry that she was taking birth control. He had seemed relieved, and they had carried on, and never touched on the topic again. Did he think she had betrayed him, that she had meant to entrap him and then spirited his child away? Was he mortified, to think of the burden Ruth had just laid in his lap? Did he hate her, would he scorn her, would he want to get to know his child, how could they possibly hope for him to form a relationship with Emma while Ruth was still dead and no one could know where she was? A thousand questions tore at Ruth's shattered heart, and she rushed to explain herself, quickly, to dispel the silence and coax Harry into unburdening himself to her.

"I didn't lie to you," she said at once. "I was taking the pill. But then you made me go to Havensworth, and I didn't have enough time to pack properly, and I didn't bring it with me, and I missed two days, and then I just kept forgetting, and-"

Harry reached out and stemmed the flood of her words with his hand gentle on her skin. His fingertips trailed over her wrist and across her knuckles until he wound their fingers together, and squeezed her tightly. All the air left her at once, her shoulders going slack and a soft sigh escaping her as her eyes found his, caught them, held them in the darkness. There was such warmth in his gaze, in the soft turn of his mouth, in the way he leaned towards her that she could not help but sway closer to him, drawing their joined hands down into her lap. It was strange, really; they had only been together such a short while, just a bare few weeks of quiet meals and quiet drinks and quiet conversations and quiet love-making, but they had known one another so well, so fully, that it often felt to her as if their affair had spanned a lifetime. Though it had been in her mind to worry that perhaps his feelings for her were not as deep as she had once suspected, as he had once nearly confessed to her on the banks of the Thames, when she looked at him now she saw in him all the depth of affection they had felt for one another and her hands began to shake at the very thought. He was not cross, was not spurning her, was not a stranger; he was still, somehow, miraculously, _Harry,_ and she was so grateful to him she nearly wept.

"It's all right, Ruth," he said. "I'm not angry. I'm...a little surprised, but not angry." He paused for a moment, his eyes searching her face, and she tried to be steady, for his sake, tried to calm her racing heart. "Will you," he started, stopped, pursed his lips together in a way that made her heart ache to think how much she'd missed him, how overjoyed she was to see him again, "will you tell me about her?"

He was not pushing her away, was not denying her child, was in fact, apparently, rather keen to know everything he could about the little girl who had become the very center of her world, and so Ruth smiled and rose to her feet, still holding his hand in her own.

"Come with me," she said softly.

* * *

Ruth led him through the door and into the quiet of her darkened kitchen, and Harry just followed along, his thoughts racing. It was a strange and miraculous thing, to think that somehow they had between them created a new life, a little girl, a little person all her own with thoughts and opinions and dreams, and he was suddenly hungry for every piece of information he could get as regarded Emma and her life. Ruth seemed to understand; she guided him to a chair at her kitchen table and then slipped away on silent feet, returning in a moment carrying a leather bound photo album. She made them each a cup of tea, and they sat together at that table as the long dark hours of the night passed into morning. Harry trailed his fingertips over photos of his daughter's birth, her first birthday party, first steps, first day of school. He listened in rapt attention as Ruth explained how this had all come to pass, how she had discovered she was pregnant while staying in Sicily, how she had rung Malcolm in a panic, how he had deviously engineered a position for her here in the States where she could more comfortably plant her roots, how she had only ever wanted what was best for their child. He listened to her story, learned how brave, how strong, how selfless she had been, saw how completely she loved their daughter, and as the night drifted away he found himself once more wholly and irreversibly in love with Ruth Evershed.


	6. Chapter 6

"You've done something remarkable here, Ruth," he told her softly, reverently, his eyes warm and gentle and calling to her, bringing to mind the nights she'd spent sheltered in the circle of his arms, the comfort she'd found in his embrace, the hope that had just begun to blossom in her chest before the world came crashing down around her. "She seems like a wonderful little girl."

His gaze returned to the photo album as if he could hardly stand to look away, as if he feared that should he close his eyes for a single moment the dream that was their daughter, their much longed-for and yet completely unexpected reunion, might vanish like smoke upon the wind.

"She is," Ruth agreed, smiling. Yes, Emma was a wonderful child, for all that her arrival into the world had been surrounded by calamity, for all the worries she'd brought to Ruth's doorstep, for all the difficulties of the last seven years. If she had been given the opportunity to choose, this was not the path Ruth would have elected to take; she'd never been particularly good with children, had never longed for one of her own, had hardly even known what to do when they placed Emma in her arms the day she came screaming into the world. The circumstances had hardly been ideal, with Ruth on the run, using a false identity, cut off from friends and family, enemies lurking round every corner, and her paltry funds fast running out. When she first learned she was pregnant one terrible night in Sicily she had been so completely and utterly shocked by the news that she had begun to laugh, somewhat hysterically, her mind racing, and the laughter had slowly turned to quiet tears, as she thought of all that Harry would miss, as she thought of how badly she wished he was still by her side.

And now, miraculously, he was. Sitting at her kitchen table, his fingertips pressed against a photo of Emma taken the previous Christmas. Harry, warm and solid and real, who had taken the news in stride, who had been so kind, so even-keeled about this revelation. Ruth could not count the number of times she'd imagined telling Harry of their daughter, the number of times she had lost herself to daydreams that utterly paled in comparison to this reality. He was not cross or cruel or disappointed or distant; it seemed to Ruth that he was trying his very best not to appear overly eager, to be calm and understanding, but there was a sort of excitement to him, a buzzing sort of energy, a pride in his eyes and the set of his shoulders that warmed her heart.

It was strange, somehow, being so close to him again, confronting the reality of him rather than just wrapping herself up in rose-tinted memories. She had forgotten, somehow, the exact timbre of his voice, the breadth of his hands, and as she watched him a thousand tiny details rose to the surface at once to overwhelm her even as she noted that he still filled every room he entered with an undeniable presence, that he still pursed his lips together in exactly the same way when he was thinking, that she still felt the call of his body, pulling her closer to him with all the inexorable force of gravity. She still trusted him, inexplicably, with everything she had, still felt as if she knew him, body and soul, though so much time had passed. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps she was just overcome at the thought of finally having him and Emma beneath the same roof, perhaps it was just exhaustion as they whiled away the long hours of the night together, but she felt a fondness and a longing for him she could not deny beginning to well up deep within her heart.

"I would like to meet her, if you think that would be all right," he said slowly, and she felt some of the gentle joy that had infused her as they talked begin to melt away. For a moment she studied him, the tilt of his chin, the stubble just beginning to form on his cheeks, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, wondering how on earth they were going to navigate this minefield together. Ruth had grown quite comfortable in this place, had never once over the last seven years caught so much as a whiff of danger or disaster. She had made a life here, a comfortable one, where Emma was safe and happy. Harry belonged to a world of shadows, full of terror and darkness, his home a continent away and no place for a child. And Emma was only six; how could they explain this to her? How could they not? Could she bear to lie, to tell Emma that Harry was no more than a friend?

He must have seen some of the trepidation on her face for he frowned, slightly, and she sighed, hoping that her hesitant nature hadn't already spoiled things between them.

"I think you should," she answered. "You're here, and I don't want to keep her from you. But, Harry, we have to think this through. She plays with Louis and Gabe all the time. How do you think we could ever explain to her that her father is _their_ grandfather?"

"Children take that sort of thing in stride, Ruth," he answered in an irritatingly logical tone of voice. "Especially at her age. They haven't been in this world long enough to develop all our prejudices about sex and families. You never know, they might think it's funny, when they find out she's their aunt."

"Oh, god," Ruth groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment. "She is, isn't she? Oh, this is so bloody...weird."

Harry laughed then, that lighthearted chuckle she recalled so well from happier days, and she lifted her head to grin at him ruefully. He was such a wonderful man, her Harry, strong and proud and cruel, when he needed to be, but never with her. With her he had always been tender and considerate, even when he had no cause to be, even when such treatment had singled her out on the grid. Perhaps he was right, and things would not be so terribly dire as she imagined; Emma would be delighted, she knew, to meet her father, and Catherine and the boys would get used to it in time. She hoped.

"But what happens after, Harry?" she asked him suddenly. It was all well and good to think happy thoughts of reunion now, when they were all in one place, one strange, happy family spread between two houses, but Harry would inevitably be called back to London, and Ruth could not predict what might happen next. Would he continue to visit her, to ring her, would people take note of his sudden interest in a woman and child on the other side of the world, would the danger of loving him come for her again, as she always feared it might? Would time dull the sharp sweetness of the feelings that roiled through them in this moment? Would Emma come to adore her father, as Ruth did, and pine for him while he was away, and grow cross with her parents for keeping them apart? Ruth could not find her way through the mess, and what was worse was that she had no idea what to expect from Harry, could not fathom what he was thinking, what he was planning, if indeed he had gone so far as to establish a plan.

"I think we ought to take this one day at a time," he answered, and though she knew that he had meant those words to sound encouraging she found no reassurance in them. "I've only just arrived. I think we ought to talk more about it, you and I, but perhaps after we've had a bit more sleep." This last he added with a wry smile, and Ruth had to admit that she was rather exhausted, having spent so much time sitting up with him, dawn just beginning to break through the lacy curtains on her kitchen windows. "Why don't you come round for breakfast, after she wakes up? We could say hello, and she could play with the boys, and you and I could talk with Catherine."

Ruth was not particularly looking forward to the excruciating awkwardness of that conversation, explaining to her best friend that she had in fact slept with said friend's father, not once, but many times, that she had loved him, wholly and completely, that she had borne his child. Ruth did not go in for sharing her emotions, did not easily allow her vulnerabilities to show, and Harry and Emma together were her two greatest weaknesses. But Catherine was Harry's daughter, too, and he had come all this way to visit his grandchildren, and it would not do to keep them apart, to allow the shock of their rediscovery of one another to separate him from his family.

"All right," she answered, for she could see no other choice. Harry deserved the chance to meet his child, and Catherine deserved the chance to ask them both whatever questions she harbored in her heart, however uncomfortable that might make Harry and Ruth.

Silence stretched thick between them, the darkness of the night slowly, almost imperceptibly giving way to morning. They both knew that he needed to go, to return to Catherine's house, to try to sleep, if only for an hour. They had made their plan, and there was no room in that plan for Harry to linger in her kitchen, staring at her with hungry eyes. And yet he did not leave, and she made no move to force him out. She returned his gaze with her own, feeling the tendrils of want and yearning beginning to coil around her heart. They had not touched again, since he'd taken her hand on the porch, had focused their conversation on Emma, and not themselves, not the desires they kept hidden in their hearts, and she felt a desperate sort of ache deep in her chest, a desire for the connection to another soul she had been denied these last seven years.

"I looked for you," he murmured into the stillness, and she felt her pulse begin to race even as her heart ached to hear the sorrow in his tone. "Zaf told me you'd gone to France, and so I went. I spent two weeks travelling the country, little villages and towns. I stayed in Paris for three days. It was foolish, I know. I had no reason to believe you were still there, we'd had no news of you. But I still went. I couldn't shake the sense that you were out there, somewhere. Waiting for me to find you."

"I was only in Paris for a day," she confessed. His words had brought a sheen of tears to her eyes, though she did not - could not - let them fall. He had gone to Paris in search of her, and for a moment she lost herself in imagining it, thinking how lovely, how utterly perfect it would have been, had she discovered him while she was walking along the banks of the Seine, alone and forlorn and dreaming of him. It was too perfect, too much to even hope for, and yet he had gone, anyway, for despite the fact that he could be hard and pragmatic her Harry was a romantic at heart, and she loved him for it. "I wasn't sure if anyone would come after me. I wanted to stay there, Harry. I wanted…" _I wanted you to find me,_ she thought, but she did not give voice to those words, did not want to make him feel as if he'd failed her, for in truth she had known the moment she left him that it would be all but impossible for him to ever track her down. Unless, of course, he spoke to Malcolm, but-

"I never asked Malcolm where you'd gone," he said, and she smiled, just a little, to think how strange and lovely it was that he still possessed that uncanny talent for knowing exactly what she was thinking. "I thought he must have known, somehow, where you were, but I never asked him. I was sure you would have sworn him to secrecy or something, and I didn't want to violate that trust. I felt as if… as if you were some sort of quest. As if I simply had to find you on my own, without involving anyone else."

Perhaps it was a bit melodramatic, a bit presumptuous, but it was such a very Harry thing to say, to do, that she could not help the rush of affection she felt for him as he spoke. Harry was a man of honor, of dignity, but he was also stubborn as a mule, when he wanted to be.

"Well," she said slowly, "here I am. You've found me, Harry."

He was not a man much given to smiling; often his mouth would not move at all, but his eyes would soften, just a little, just enough to show some piece of what he was feeling, and they did now as he watched her, and Ruth could not stop herself from reaching out and covering his hand with her own where it rested against the tabletop. As one their gazes turned, took in the sight of her small hand wrapped around his own much larger one, the beating of their hearts keeping steady pace as they shared the same air, the same space, the same moment for the first time in so many long years. At last, after so much doubt, so much uncertainty, he had found her, and she was so bloody grateful and so bloody scared she could hardly find the words.

They did not always have need of words, however, Ruth and Harry; they had long since established a quiet understanding between them that allowed such moments to pass heavy with meaning, both of them keenly aware of what the other was thinking, feeling, with no need for speech. This became such a moment, as Harry turned his hand over beneath her own and twined their fingers together, as his gaze drifted back up to her face and she saw the expression in his eyes so reminiscent of the way he had stared her down in the corridor of the Havensworth Hotel, prowling towards her, hungry and yet somehow still uncertain of where they stood with one another, how far the bonds of affection and desire between them might go. That night at the hotel had come in the first blush of their physical relationship, a test of their strength, their ability to remain professional no matter the circumstances, and it was a test they had failed spectacularly, given that Ruth had abandoned her mobile in her room and spent the evening tangled up in Harry's bedsheets instead, flying in the face of every protocol she could think of. To see him wearing that same expression now, after all the changes they had undergone, after all that time had stolen from them, left her breathless.

Would it be so terrible, she wondered, if she gave into him now, if she let him pull her into him, if their bodies crashed together and they let themselves forget, however briefly, every bitter wound they'd ever suffered, every loss, every grievance? Was is so very wrong that she still wanted this man, even now, after everything?

"I should go," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, you should," she agreed, in a voice as breathless as his own had been.

With smoldering eyes he held her gaze, pinned her in place, set her alight with need, and ever so slowly he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her skin.

"I'll see you soon, Ruth," he said, but she was left speechless, no words coming to her as she stared at him, as she wondered what the bloody hell had just happened. And in a moment he was gone, slipping through the back door on silent feet, leaving Ruth sitting in her chair with her fingers pressed to her lips, wondering what on earth had just happened, wondering what on earth was going to happen next.


	7. Chapter 7

"If that's all right, of course," Harry added softly, trying to keep a tight lid on his emotions, trying to remember that as strange and difficult as he was finding their sudden change in circumstances it must have been doubly unbearable for Catherine.

She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup for a moment, blonde hair all a tangle, still dressed in her pajamas. For all the heartache that had come between them, all the years of silence, he loved his daughter fiercely, and he saw rather a lot of himself in her. Even her dogged pursuit of justice for the weak and downtrodden was a gift he had given her, for it was Harry, and not Jane, who had devoted his life in service to his country, sacrificed again and again so that others might be kept safe. In this moment, as she silently weighed him up and deliberated his request, she reminded him quite forcefully of himself. She could be a cool customer, when she wanted to be, knew how to work with people, how to accomplish her goals. It was just that, unlike her father, she was rather more adept at expressing her emotions. _That_ she had inherited from Jane.

"Of course it's all right," she said at last, with a sigh. "You ought to meet Emma, and we ought to talk. I'll text Rachel and let her know she's welcome to come for breakfast."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that perhaps some of her ire had cooled, but then she looked down at her mobile and made a rueful little sound.

"I suppose that's not even her real name, is it? _Rachel.'_ Her tone was derisive, and as she spoke he realized how much she must still be hurting. He imagined it must have been all but impossible for her to imagine someone like Ruth, someone closer in age to Catherine than to her father, someone soft and kind, taking up with him. It must have seemed like such a betrayal, on both their parts, and though he longed to defend himself he could hardly find the words. How to explain the inexplicable, he asked himself; how could he ever hope to give voice to everything that Ruth had meant to him, all the hope and all the potential and all the loss that was their short-lived affair, when he had never even voiced his feelings to Ruth herself?

"No," he said sadly.

Catherine stared at him for a moment, caught between curiosity and seething rage, but in the end she simply shrugged and shuffled off, muttering about having a shower before the boys woke up. And in the silence Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, thinking about his daughter - both his daughters - thinking of Ruth, and the frailty of love, the impermanence of personal connections in his world, the sheer inconceivable providence of his having found her here, the insurmountable difficulties that faced them.

 _Right,_ he thought bleakly. _Coffee._

* * *

"But, _Mumma_ ," Emma whined, but Ruth remained firm in her convictions.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said, dragging the comb through Emma's blonde curls without the slightest hint of sympathy. "This will only take a moment."

There were few things in life Emma Rose Evans hated quite so much as having her hair seen to, but Ruth was determined that when at last Harry and Emma were introduced he would see that their daughter was neat and clean and well-looked after. Though Ruth had not insisted that she wear a dress, knowing that Emma loathed them and that she was only going to be playing with the boys anyway, she would not budge on the matter of her hair. And besides, even if Emma did not enjoy it, Ruth found a certain sense of calm in moments like this, standing behind her daughter, running her fingers over those soft blonde curls. Emma had been blessed with hair the color of her father's, a deep rich blonde, and it hung in soft ringlets almost to her shoulders. The curls reminded Ruth, not just of Harry and the way his soft hair would curl around his collar when he let it grow too long, but of Ruth's father as well; he'd had thick, dark hair, as curly as Emma's. Sometimes just looking at her little girl made Ruth's heart ache, thinking of her own father, how she missed him, how she wished she'd had the chance to introduce him to his grandchild.

Wishes, Ruth had found, were not often granted, and so she was hellbent on making the most of the opportunity she'd been given, having Harry back in her life. There was still a spark of something between them, and while she feared that giving into it would be madness she was resolved not to push him away. Some force of fate beyond her understanding had brought him back to her, and she would not squander this chance, would not let him slip through her fingers again, not unless that was what he truly wanted. And she would not keep him from his child, would as gently as she could introduce them to one another, and perhaps all together they would find their way through this mess.

"There we are," she said when her work was finished, pausing to place a tender kiss against the top of her daughter's head. "All done."

Emma was out of the chair in a moment, racing off for the door, and Ruth watched her, smiling softly, thinking uncertain thoughts about the titanic shift in their lives that was about to occur. Emma didn't know it, yet, but everything was about to change.

* * *

"Here we go," Catherine said softly, and before Harry could ask what she was talking about there came a soft knock upon the back door.

He had been sitting at the kitchen table, speaking softly to his daughter, but now that Ruth had arrived he was on his feet in a moment, straightening his shirt front and taking a deep breath. Catherine did not see him fidgeting for she had already gone to open the door.

 _This is it,_ he told himself, waiting with bated breath for Emma and Ruth to appear. He had given it a lot of thought, this first meeting with his daughter, and decided it might be for the best if he were not introduced as her father. He did not want to make her uncomfortable, did not want to force her into affections she was not ready to feel, did not want to overwhelm her, and so he planned to take things slowly with her. She was, after all, only six, and this situation was confusing enough for the adults in the room.

 _One thing at a time,_ he told himself.

But then, oh then, the door opened and they stepped through, Ruth and Emma, and his heart very nearly exploded in his chest. He could not blink, could hardly breathe as he hungrily devoured the sight of them, this woman he had loved and lost, this child who was his flesh and blood.

Ruth was speaking softly to Catherine and Emma was holding tight to her mother's hand, wide blue eyes staring at the stranger across the room. Those eyes, so like her mother's, left him startled and aching, brought the stunning truth home to him at last in a blow fierce as a knockout punch. This was _Ruth's_ child, a child she had carried within the shelter of her own body, a living piece of her, and in Emma's face he saw the features of his beloved, the high, sharp rise of her cheeks and the full bow of her lips and those eyes, huge and blue and brilliant and lovely. The soft blonde hair, however, was all Harry, and he almost grinned at the thought that he could see a piece of himself in the countenance of that angelic little girl.

Beside her Ruth was lovely, wearing a soft navy dress, her dark hair longer than it had ever been in London, falling in gentle waves around that face he loved so well. Time had not dulled her beauty; if anything, she was more enchanting now than she ever had been before, now that she was older, and wiser, and sadder, too. He could hear the warm, melodious sound of her voice, but in truth her words did not register, for Harry was too caught up in staring at them, his daughters and his beloved. His _daughters;_ Christ, but that would take some getting used to, the notion that now there were two where before there had only been one. And though Catherine was tall and proud and a mother herself as he looked back and forth between the pair of them he could almost convince himself that they shared some things in common, their sharp noses perhaps, or the curve of their chins. Catherine's hair was the exact same color as Emma's, though hers was straight and fine. In that moment, he was hard pressed to say which of them was loveliest, Catherine or Ruth or Emma, for they all possessed a piece of his heart, these three beautiful girls, represented to him all that was good and worth fighting for in this world.

The brief conversation had drawn to a close, however, and Ruth caught his eye and smiled once, tightly, her expression full of trepidation, before she began to close the space between them with Emma in tow. Harry watched their approach feeling as if his tongue were stuck to the roof of his mouth, utterly at a loss for words.

"Emma," Ruth said softly as they came to a stop right in front of him. "I'd like you to meet someone very special. This is-"

"Harry," he said, cutting her off, just in case she had intended to blow the whole thing right open there and then. He tried to tell her, with just his gaze, that he thought it best they wait, and though she looked a bit surprised she did not seem displeased.

"Hello," the little girl said softly, uncertainly, apparently as anxious in the face of attention as her mother.

"It's very nice to meet you, Emma."

A strangled sound escaped Ruth's lips; she tried to mask it with a cough, but he had seen in her eyes all the swirling emotions that filled his own heart as for the first time he spoke to their daughter. His heart was full of wonder such as it had not been since...well, he thought to himself, since the very first time he'd laid eyes on Catherine.

"Are you Louis's grandad?" she asked him. She spoke softly, without much confidence, and still she clung to her mother's hand, and Harry found himself fighting a powerful urge to draw her into his arms, to tell her not to fret, that all would be well.

"I am," he said, and she smiled up at him, and he very nearly began to weep. No more words would come; he was lost, completely. She was a marvelous little thing, was Emma, but he had never been particularly good with children - babies he could handle just fine but he lost all aptitude once they were old enough to speak - and he had no earthly idea what to say to her. Ruth was no help, for she looked rather overcome herself.

"The boys are in the sitting room," Catherine cut through the silence neatly. "Why don't you go play with them, Emma?"

She looked up at her mother, seeking permission, but then Ruth smiled and nodded and she was gone, tearing off through the house in search of her playmates; _her nephews,_ he thought ruefully. And suddenly, the whole thing just seemed so completely strange, so utterly wonderful, that a wide, wild grin flashed across his face. He looked up sharply and found Ruth staring at him with tears in the corners of her eyes. When she caught sight of his smile a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaped her, and he could not stop himself. He laughed, once, the tension leaving him in a sharp short burst, and then he took a single step and pulled Ruth hard against him. She went with him willingly, her hands fisting in his shirt and her nose pressed hard to his neck as she wept silent tears and he grinned, her hair brushing his chin, his very soul singing in joy. He kissed her temple once, because he could, because she was there, because he could not tell her he loved her, not now, not after all the many years of their separation, because he loved her so fully that he could not contain himself. Over the top of her head he caught Catherine's gaze, saw the hurt, the questions, the anger in her eyes, and some of his jubilance faded, but only a little. The moment was too beautiful for grief, and he was certain that Catherine's wounded heart would heal in time, once they all had a chance to grow more accustomed to their situation.

* * *

Though she had known that this moment would be a heavy one Ruth had been ill prepared for just how much it affected her, watching Harry meet their child for the very first time. For so long she had yearned for this, had wanted, so badly, for them to know one another, for Emma to have a father, for Harry to be proud of their child, and he had surpassed all her expectations, had been kind and gentle and seemed to be rather pleased with Emma. He was taking it all in stride; yes, he was shocked, of course he was, but he had understood, innately, why Ruth had not sent word to him, why she had remained lost to him for so many years, and he did not begrudge her the choices she'd made. That was the thing about Harry, about them, that had always worked, that had convinced her to pursue him despite the nagging of her rational mind; somehow, miraculously, he _knew_ her, understood her, in a way that no one else had ever done, and when she looked at him she _knew_ him, his heart, his mind, in a way that frankly terrified her.

And now he was holding her, and though it might have been rash, given how much their lives had changed, though perhaps it was foolish to seek such comfort in him, she could not deny that the warmth of his arms around her soothed her racing heart, reassured her in a way that no words ever could.

But Cate was there, just on the other side of the kitchen, and so Ruth forced herself to pull back from him, offering him a watery smile before running her fingers through her hair and turning her attentions to her friend, feeling a little embarrassed, feeling as if she had just suffered some sort of emotional whiplash.

"Coffee?" Cate asked weakly, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Harry and Ruth like a spectator at a tennis match.

"God, yes," Ruth and Harry answered together.


	8. Chapter 8

"She's a strong swimmer," Harry murmured.

Ruth nearly jumped out of her skin; she hadn't heard him approach. _Bloody spook,_ she thought wryly as he folded himself into the chair beside her, grumbling a little as he went.

"She is," Ruth agreed, her eyes turning back to the pool where her daughter was ducking and diving beneath the clear water, happy and at peace.

"Like her mum," Harry said, and Ruth's heart fluttered, just a little, to think he had remembered such a mundane detail about her, to think of the threads of blood and love and longing that bound them together, Ruth and Harry and their beautiful little girl.

It was a lovely day; the sky was above blue and clear, a gentle breeze ruffling the treetops, the sun already boiling hot though it was only just after ten. The children had imperiously demanded that they be allowed to spend the morning splashing about in Cate's little above-ground pool, and their mothers had graciously given in to their request. Cate had offered to take the first shift, and so it was that Ruth was able to sit comfortably in a plastic lawn chair with a lukewarm cup of tea in her hands while Louis and Emma played a convoluted game that seemed to involve a lot of shouting and thrashing, and little Gabe did his best to keep up, held aloft with a little float strapped securely to his chest. Cate looked a little haggard - and more than a little waterlogged - but if she were unhappy with the current arrangement she made no comment, likely because she knew that in due time it would be Ruth's turn to takeover, and she could have a well earned break.

For a moment Ruth wondered if Cate had done this on purpose, arranged to allow Ruth and Harry a few minutes to talk quietly without having to worry about eavesdropping little ears. They were close by the pool, but the children made such a ruckus, and Ruth and Harry both spoke softly by nature, and she knew their voices would not carry. Intentional or not, Ruth was grateful for the illusion of solitude, though as she watched Harry out of the corner of her eye she found she had no idea what to say to him.

In deference to the heat of the day and their domestic surroundings Harry had donned a pair of shorts, and Ruth found her gaze drawn to the sight of his pale knees. She had seen every inch of him before, of course, had traced the lines of his skin with gentle fingertips in the darkness of many a cold night back home in London, but she had never - _ever_ \- seen him in such attire. In point of fact, had she not seen the truth for herself she would have insisted the man didn't even own a pair of shorts. And why should he, when he spent most of his days at work, spent his precious time off drinking and listening to jazz music or walking his little dog through the park? London could swelter, in summer, but the heat was always brief, and for a man who spent so much of his time stalking through the corridors of power, it could be endured without the need for shorts.

But he was wearing them now, and she smiled, just a little, to think of how strange, how lovely it was to see him like this, relaxed and surrounded by his family. She had known him inside and out once, long ago, but even so she had never seen him quite like this. Their lives had always been so dire, so rushed, so full of tension and grief and never-ending calamity, that even when he held her close nestled beneath his bedsheets he had never truly shed the persona of the boss spook. He had been kind, and tender, and utterly devoted to her, but such gentleness had always seemed to her to be no more than the thinnest veneer, only barely covering the fierce hard truth of him. Looking at him now, however, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than what he seemed to be, just a man, enjoying a sunny morning and the laughter of his grandchildren.

He turned to her suddenly, and she blushed to think she had been caught out staring at him, but she returned his steady gaze. Let him see that she had been studying him, she thought, let him realize just how much she still cared for him, how curious she was about all he had endured in her absence, how much her heart ached at the thought of all the questions they'd yet to answer. Let him see her want and her indecision, and let him draw what conclusions he would. The last seven years had taught Ruth many hard lessons, about regret, about opportunity, about the dangers of waiting too long, and it was time that Harry saw just how much the time had changed her.

"Well, Ruth," he said, his warm hazel eyes still locked firmly on her face, his expression giving nothing away. "I think things went well this morning, don't you?"

Ruth hummed, her eyes flitting back towards the pool on instinct as Emma let out a shrill scream, her momentary tension abating when she saw that it was joy, and not fear, that compelled the little girl to call out. Yes, the morning had gone quite well; they had talked amongst themselves, Harry and Ruth and Catherine, for a few moments, and then they had decamped to the sitting room to watch the children at play. Harry had been considerate of Emma, had spoken to her softly but refused to crowd her, had been sure to pay equal attention to his grandsons, and all three of the children had warmed to his presence quite quickly. Emma called him _Harry,_ and Ruth's heart grieved to hear it, but she did not yet know how to navigate this minefield.

Perhaps he could see some of her worries on her face, as her thoughts drifted towards their conversation the night before, as she wondered, yet again, how this was going to play out, what the end result might be, for Harry sighed, and his hand shifted as if he meant to reach out to her, but thought better of it at the last moment.

"It will be all right, Ruth," he said softly. "I know it feels like everything is a bit...upside down, just now, but we'll find our way through it."

"Will we?" she asked him, the words tumbling from her lips before she had the chance to think better of them. He frowned at her, and that expression roused some sort of defensiveness in her spirit. It had often been like this with them, in the past; she would try to tell him something, and he would be grumpy and obstinate, and she would continue to insist until at last he gave in and admitted that she was right. They might not have been discussing the security of the realm, but the future of their family was a topic that Ruth felt held equal weight to any issue they had tackled in the past.

"I mean really, Harry," she said, "how does this end? It's fine now, but what happens when we tell her the truth? What happens when you leave? Am I still in danger? What will we-"

"Good God, Ruth," Harry grumbled, stemming the flood of her anxious words. "I had almost forgotten what it's like."

"What what's like?" she demanded, and if the corner of his mouth had not been turned up in the ghost of an affectionate smile she would have been cross indeed to hear him speak to her that way, but his expression told her that his words - however offensive - were meant affectionately.

"You are a brilliant analyst," he said, that little smile turning sly in an instant, "and that's an admirable quality at work, but you can't live your life that way. You can't predict every outcome. We _will_ sort this out. Just because we haven't yet doesn't mean we never will. Now can you please, just for a moment, try to enjoy this?"

"If you're trying to tell me to just let it all crinkle out, Harry, I swear -"

"I spoke to the Home Secretary this morning if you must know," he cut her off again, but this time she did not spare a moment for indignation, not when her heart was racing and her throat was tight with fear at the very thought. Harry Pearce possessed a special knack for drawing her up short, for thinking ahead of even her, for plotting and planning in ways she almost never gave him credit for, and he had done it once again. He had her on the back foot, and he knew it, if the way his eyes crinkled up and his chin lifted proudly was any indication.

"You are in no danger, Ruth. Mace has been in jail the last two years on unrelated charges, his fellow conspirators wouldn't dare lift a hand against you at the risk of ending up in the same place, and the Home Secretary has agreed to...for lack of a better word, _exhume_ you. Ros is handling things on that end, but the process has started."

Ruth leaned back heavily against her chair, her thoughts swirling through her mind so thick and fast she could hardly catch hold of them. _We're safe,_ she thought absently, but then _oh God, why?_ What did he expect? Harry had made this decision without her input had started the ball rolling on a process that could change her life forever, could rip Ruth and Emma away from the comfortable shelter Ruth had built in this place and plunge them back into the intrigue of her former life. Or not, she supposed; she could go on being Rachel, and keep her true identity as a contingency plan, of sorts, should she ever change her mind. Ruth wasn't entirely sure what Harry had intended, whether he meant to bring her home with him or was simply trying to do the right thing, and since he had just chided her for overthinking she decided not to give him any further ammunition.

"How is Ros?" she asked faintly.

Harry actually laughed; the sound of it surprised her, but then she reminded herself just how well he knew her, just how likely it was that he knew exactly why she'd chosen to ask such a question, rather than needle him about his decision to speak to the Home Secretary without her input.

"She's well," he said, and the warm affection in his gaze made Ruth's face blush crimson, again, as memories of the way he'd held her that morning, the way he'd kissed her hand the night before, the way he'd rocked her to the core a hundred times during their ill-fated affair stoked a quiet yearning deep in the pit of her stomach.

Before she could speak, however, they were interrupted by their daughter's breathless shout.

"Mumma!" she said, little arms dangling over the edge of the pool, her eyes bright and her smile wide. "Come play with us! Cate's tired."

"Yes, she is," Cate supplied from over Emma's shoulder.

"Duty calls," Ruth murmured, rising to her feet in a moment.

Summer mornings often ended this way, and so Ruth had taken care when she'd dressed that morning. Beneath her soft navy dress she wore her favorite black bathing suit, and so she unwrapped herself, keeping her back to Harry to avoid watching him as she disrobed right in front of him. There was no telling what he would think, to see her like this, her hips wider, her skin tanner, her breasts fuller than they'd been before the birth of her daughter. There was no telling what he might feel, when faced with the truth of her body only barely concealed, and Ruth wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know. There had been a spark of something between them, last night and then again this morning, and her dreams had been haunted by hazy memories of their all-too-brief nights of passion; she was not sure, yet, what it was she wanted from him, but she _was_ sure that if he looked at her now without any of his previous hunger her heart would whither, just a little.

In a moment her dress was off, however, and she turned, bare feet sliding across the grass, to place her dress in her recently vacated chair. And as she did she saw him, and her breath caught in her throat; he made no sound, but his full lips were parted, and his dark eyes were fixed on her, and a small, vain piece of her rejoiced, for she could see the want etched in every line of his face. Seven years was not long enough to make her forget the way he'd looked at her each time he kissed her, each time he took her in his arms and melted her with the heat of his desire. Whatever he thought, whatever he felt in this moment, he _wanted_ her, and that was a comforting to her.

There was no time to linger, however, for Emma had asked for her, and Cate was ready to take a rest. They passed at the edge of the pool, Cate going out as Ruth went in, though they did not speak. That would have to be corrected, and soon, Ruth knew; it was one thing to stand in the kitchen and discuss strategies for managing the children among the three of them, but Cate was her _friend,_ and Ruth wanted to speak with her privately, to set her fears to rest, to reassure her that their friendship was valuable to her.

That was something else that would have to wait. In a moment Ruth was gasping as her sun-warmed skin slid beneath the water, and then sputtering as Emma threw her arms around her mother's neck and drenched the pair of them with a mighty splash. Dimly Ruth could hear Harry chuckling, and the thought of him near, and safe, and well, made her smile as she wrapped her arms around her daughter.

"Hello, my love," she said gently as they floated together.

"Hello, Mumma," Emma answered. "Were you talking to Mister Harry?"

Ruth's heart sank, but she tried to keep smiling. She tried to remind herself that Harry was right - _damn him -_ that they were going to find their way through this, that one day maybe Emma would call him _dad._ It was a beautiful thought, and a comforting one.

"I was," she allowed, reaching out to brush Emma's soaking hair back from her face.

"I like Mister Harry," Emma declared with all the certainty of a child. "Can he by my granddad, too?"

Ruth almost lost her footing, a soft, strangled sound escaping her, but before she could come up with some reasonable response the boys spared her, Louis appearing at her elbow with a little ball and insisting they play a game. Those more sticky conversations would have to wait until everyone was dry and fed and Harry and Ruth had been given a chance to form a plan of attack, and so Ruth tried instead to give herself over to the joy of the moment, to games and laughter and the warm weight of Harry's gaze upon her back.


	9. Chapter 9

"I'm a T-Rex!" Gabe cried in his sweet little voice, making a sound that Catherine knew from experience was mean to mimic the roar of that legendary beast.

"Me, too!" Emma shouted with glee, and in the next moment there were two growling dinosaurs in the sitting room.

"What am I, then?" Catherine heard her father ask in a very serious sort of voice.

"You're a brontosaurus," Louis answered him. "And I'm a velociraptor, and we're going to eat you!"

"Oh, dear," Harry lamented, and in the next moment there came a great tumult of noise, the children growling and gnashing their teeth, her father letting out a surprised little _oomph,_ and then distinct _thump_ of a body hitting the floor.

"What do you think?" Rachel asked from her post at Catherine's side. "Should we rescue him?"

They had played in the pool until all the little dinosaurs began to clamor for lunch, and then Catherine and Rachel had set up shop in the kitchen, preparing their meal while Harry selflessly volunteered to look after the little ones. He had done an admirable job so far, though Catherine had been quite surprised at how easily he took to the business of being a grandfather. Perhaps time had mellowed his spirit, or taught him some important lessons about the value of family, or perhaps it was simply easier for him to be silly with his grandchildren when he knew that the daunting task of raising them up into functioning adults belonged to someone else. Perhaps it was Rachel, and the discovery of his new little daughter that made him so kind and willing to indulge the children, when in all of Catherine's memories he was a hard man, stern and unforgiving. That thought left her feeling rather uncharitable, but the morning had been going so well, and she was trying, very hard, not to dwell on the fact that her father had slept with her best friend and left the poor woman pregnant and alone.

"I suppose we ought to at least check on him," Catherine agreed, trying very hard to smile at her friend. "Make sure they haven't eaten him."

And so they turned away from their work and moved on silent feet to the doorway, the pair of them laughing softly as they took in the sight before them.

Harry was laid out on his back on the floor, the three little ones crawling all over him, making some show of devouring their prey. His eyes were a little wild, but everything seemed to be under control, and so the women did not step in to save him. They simply watched, and a strange thought occurred to Catherine as she stood suspended in that moment. Since Rachel's arrival in her kitchen the night before and the subsequent shattering of her entire life, she had been completely flummoxed and more than a little hurt by the realization that her best friend in this country had been lying to her from the moment they met. For the last eighteen hours or so she had been trying to wrap her mind around it, trying to understand how someone like Rachel - kind, and gentle, and soft spoken, and bookish, and entirely too young for him - could have taken up with a man like Harry. It didn't make any bloody _sense_ , even with the understanding that Rachel had in fact been a spy in her previous life. She may have lied about her past, but she could not hide her character, and she seemed entirely wrong for Harry, for a violent man, a hard man, one who drank too much and isolated himself from his family and gave his life to work. In this moment, however, watching him being so sweet to the children, having listened to him speaking so softly - to Rachel, to the children, to Catherine herself - the realization that perhaps there was more to him than Catherine had ever before acknowledged was slowly beginning to dawn upon her. Watching him now, she could almost believe he was the sort of man a woman might fall in love with. It was an uncomfortable thought.

"I've never seen him like this before," Catherine confessed quietly.

Rachel turned to her, those familiar blue eyes huge and full of sorrow. "I don't think many people have," she said, and there was a world of grief in her voice.

 _I don't even know this woman,_ Catherine thought as together they turned away from the sweet scene in the sitting room and went back to preparing lunch. She didn't even know Rachel's real name, where she'd come from, what she'd done that had seen her exiled to America and living under a false identity, but she could not forget the many nights they had spent together, sharing their burdens, the confessions they had made to one another, the times when she had been in distress and Rachel had come to her aid without asking a single question. Reconciling her fondness for her friend and her feelings of betrayal would take time, but Rachel was already winning her over, with the sure and steady gentleness of her spirit.

"He was always very kind to me," Rachel said shyly as they worked.

Catherine fought the rather childish urge to roll her eyes; as his daughter, she did not want to hear about how Harry had gone about wooing the skittish Rachel, but as Rachel's friend she felt a certain duty to listen, to hear out her explanations. Her heart was troubled by the uncomfortable sensation of being pulled in two entirely different directions by pride and compassion, and she did not know yet if she would choose one path or the other, or if she would simply be torn in two.

"I was sort of the odd girl out, when I started with Five, but he trusted me. He listened to me. He never pushed me." she laughed. "Actually, that's a lie. He pushed me constantly. He challenged me. But he was never cruel. It was as if...as if he saw me, the real me, and he knew what I could achieve, better than I did."

It was clear from the way she refused to meet Catherine's gaze, from the color in her cheeks, that making such a confession was difficult for Rachel, and yet she had done it, was offering this olive branch, and Catherine tried to find the strength to take it, and not fall back on pettiness and spite. Perhaps compassion would win, after all.

"I think he must have cared for you, very much," Catherine said slowly.

"I know he did," Rachel answered simply. "And I cared for him. It wasn't easy. We didn't...it wasn't...it wasn't just some _fling,_ Cate, you have to believe that."

"I do," Catherine answered her. And she did, of course, believed every word that Rachel told her, not just because of the sincerity of her tone but because of all the times that Rachel had sat beside her in the darkness and told Catherine of the man she'd loved, the man she'd lost. Rachel had told Catherine all about her Harry, how he was a powerful man, a proud man, but one who had done everything he could to make her comfortable, who bought her thoughtful presents, left flowers on her doorstep, held her hand when they rode in the car together, protected her, loved her. Every word Rachel had spoken to her had been truth, Catherine realized. Whatever this thing between them was, it had not been casual, had not be superficial, had not been just a bit of fun. It had meant something to Rachel. It had meant everything to her. And now he was here, and it seemed that Rachel was lost.

"What will you do now?" Catherine asked her carefully.

Beside her Rachel sighed. "I haven't got the first idea. Harry said he's spoken to the Home Secretary, he's trying to sort something out for me. He wants to give me back my name. But after that, I have no idea. I'm not sure I want to take Emma back to London. She's happy here."

That was rather a lot of information for Catherine to process all in one go. She was reminded, yet again, that Rachel had lived this whole other life, so completely foreign to Catherine, so far beyond her understanding. And the choice that faced Rachel now was a daunting one. Selfishly, Catherine did not want to see her go; Rachel was a good friend, and Emma was a sweet child, and between them they had helped Catherine feel at home in this place. She didn't want to think how lonesome she would be, should she be left behind.

Left behind by her family, she realized quite suddenly, for in truth Emma was her little sister. She could not help but laugh, just a little. Rachel looked at her strangely and she rushed to explain herself.

"I just realized, I've been living next door to my little sister all this time."

"Oh, Christ," Rachel said, dismayed. "This is all so strange."

"It is," Catherine agreed, still smiling. Yes, it was strange, and she had absolutely no frame of reference, no idea how to navigate this minefield, but she decided in that moment not to be a source of further distress for Rachel, to be a friend to her, as she always had been.

"She's lovely, Rachel," Catherine told her sincerely. "Really. If I have to have a six year old little sister, I'm glad it's her. Have you decided how to tell her yet?"

Rachel shook her head. "Harry's just a stranger to her," she explained. "I don't want to overwhelm her. I'll have to tell her soon, though. She asked me today if he could be her granddad."

 _He's old enough for it,_ Catherine thought, but wisely she did not say such a thing out loud; Rachel likely didn't need reminding of the fact that Harry was rapidly approaching his sixtieth birthday, when Rachel herself was only forty-three. That is, of course, if she had been telling the truth about her birthday.

"We'll want to tell the boys at the same time, I think," Catherine mused. "We don't want Emma to feel like she has to keep this a secret."

"That's for the best," Rachel allowed.

"What is?" came a grumbling voice from the doorway.

Catherine turned and watched as her father came limping across the kitchen, the sounds of the dinosaurs still mauling one another echoing from the sitting room.

"Oh, Harry," Rachel sighed, rushing towards him at once. Casually, carelessly, as if she had not even stopped to think about it, she slipped beneath his arm to shoulder some of his weight, and guided him to a chair at the table.

"Stupid man," she chided him. "You know better than to go rolling around on the floor with that bad knee of yours."

Catherine blinked slowly, surprised and somewhat distressed by the easy intimacy of the scene playing out before her. She had not known that her father had a troublesome knee, but Rachel had, and the reminder that Rachel was rather more familiar with Harry's physical limitations than Catherine would ever want to be was a deeply unpleasant one. That was not a picture she needed in her head, the two of them together, though she could hardly deny their connection when their child was playing in the next room.

"I'm fine," Harry said, waving her off, but the gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips when Rachel turned away showed just how pleased he was to have her fussing over him.

Catherine's capacity for maturity and courtesy had been pushed almost to its breaking point already, and so she called the children in for lunch, desperately needing a distraction from thoughts of Rachel and Harry together. The little ones did not have quite the effect she had hoped for, however, for as she watched Emma crawled up into the seat right next to Harry and began to talk to him animatedly, her hair hanging in soft ringlets still damp from the pool, Harry's eyes soft and warm as he gazed at her fondly. That little girl was his child, his flesh and blood, and Catherine could see that he already doted on her. Yes, the situation was complex, and it was growing stranger by the moment.

"We'll figure it out, Cate," Rachel murmured as they gathered up the plates and prepared to serve lunch. "Somehow, we'll figure this out."

Catherine could only hope that she was right.


	10. Chapter 10

"Will you stay, just for a few minutes?" Ruth asked him, swaying slowly back and forth in front of him as they lingered on her back porch, little Emma nearly asleep in her mother's arms. On she rocked, back and forth, as if by instinct, as if she didn't even realize what she was doing, and the sight of her, so natural, so content, soothing their child, warmed his heart.

"I need to put her down, but then there's something I want to talk to you about," Ruth continued.

"Of course," Harry agreed, unable to stop the soft smile that bloomed across his face as he watched her. Ruth had always been kind, soft-spoken - except in the face of injustice, when her hackles would rise and she would defend her values as tenaciously as a bulldog - had always been gentle, the very soul of compassion, but to see her like this, to watch her nurturing a child of her own, was a revelation to him. He had spent seven years longing for her, and now that he had found her, it seemed as if her every positive quality had been enhanced a hundredfold, and she had added to their number, as her confidence had grown; the sorrow in her eyes had grown deeper, but she seemed to him stronger for it, and he remained caught firmly beneath her spell.

At his agreement she ducked her head, hiding a strange, hesitant sort of expression as she turned away from him and made her way into the house. He followed her on silent feet, though he did not dare venture beyond the kitchen. She left him to his own devices, carrying Emma away, making for the child's bed, and though his curious heart wanted to follow her, to see the rest of this house for himself, to inspect the pieces of the life Ruth had built and see with his own eyes the room where his daughter slept he remained behind, feeling very much an intruder in this house that was home to two of his favorite girls. He had not seen more than the kitchen, but with the scent of Ruth's perfume and fresh-baked bread floating in the air, the brightly colored dishtowels and mishmash of decorations and utensils, the strange, faintly tribal rug on the floor by the sink, the whole place was redolent with a sense of femininity that was completely foreign to him. How long it had been, since last he'd shared his private space with a woman, the pragmatism of his own interior design scheme standing in stark contrast to the barely-controlled chaos of delight with which Ruth approached home decor. It was like stepping into another world, in many ways, a world which he longed to inhabit, and yet to which he did not belong.

She did not leave him alone for long; Emma was nearly asleep already, and likely had drifted off into the land of dreams the moment her head touched the pillow. Emma herself was a revelation, as well, a bright, curious child who seemed to possess all the best parts of her mother, her delight in the world around her, her hopeful sense of wonder, without the decades of loss and disappointment that had so moderated Ruth's passions. They had spent a wonderful day together, their whole, strange little family, and Harry had nearly burst with pride, watching the little ones play together, listening to Emma recite to him a bevy of facts she'd learned on a dozen different topics, seeing Ruth and Catherine dancing around one another, kind and polite if a bit dazed by their newfound connection.

 _Family,_ he thought. _How about that._ He had not had a family, a real family, for decades. His wife had left him, and taken the children, and he had been a shit excuse for a father, missing his custody weekends more often than not, alienating himself from his son and his daughter, throwing himself into work. He had formed a family of sorts, deep within the bowels of Thames House, but death and deception had torn it apart, time and time again, and each time it was made new the cracks in his heart seemed to grow ever deeper. This, though, Emma and Ruth and Catherine and Louis and Gabe, this was his _family,_ the people dearest to his heart gathered in one place, smiling and laughing and eating and _together_ , as they ought to be. It was a gift he had not dared hope for, and a beautiful one.

Some of his pensive mood must have shown on his face for as Ruth re-entered the kitchen she looked at him strangely.

"What?" she asked him, this woman who despite their many long years of separation still knew him better than anyone else in the world. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking about the children," he confessed, the words not entirely truth but not entirely a lie, either. "They get on so well. It was nice, to see them all together today."

Ruth gave a relieved sort of smile, her shoulders relaxing as whatever threat she'd sensed dissipated in a moment. "Yes," she agreed. "They do. They have so much in common; they all like trains and dinosaurs and splashing about in the pool."

"I think all children like those things, Ruth."

She turned away from him, her steps carrying towards the counter and the kettle. Harry would gladly have taken a glass of something stronger, but he had slept a bare few hours the night before and exhaustion and jetlag were taking their toll. Much as he might have enjoyed a scotch, he might also have wound up asleep at Ruth's kitchen table, and that was not a risk he was willing to take.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" he asked curiously, watching her and thinking how strange it was that she could make something as simple as preparing a cup of tea seem graceful and alluring. That was his fondness for her talking, he was sure, for he had seen her stumble over her own two feet on more than one occasion, had watched dismayed as papers and pens and whole cups of tea spilled from her over-eager hands. No, Ruth was too clumsy to be called graceful, and yet, to him, she was enchanting as a goddess.

"Cate and I were talking, earlier," she began, still not looking at him. "We both have to go in to work tomorrow, just for a little while. Ordinarily we'd leave the children with one of the other mothers in the neighborhood, but since you're here, we thought perhaps you might like to-"

"Look after the children?" he asked, somewhat taken aback by the request. He could not recall the last time he had been left in charge of a single child, let alone three of them.

Ruth took pity on him and finally turned around, a cup of tea in each hand.

"Well, yes," she said, offering him his cup.

To buy himself some time to think Harry took a long drink, and felt a strange sort of nostalgia wash over him as he realized that Ruth had recalled exactly how he took his tea. They were standing rather close together, there in the semi-darkness of her kitchen, and she was watching him over the rim of her chipped mug. Her eyes were huge and blue and filled with doubt, with hesitation, a pale blush blooming across the rise of her high, sharp cheeks. Her hair was dark and curling softly, and he longed, more than anything, to reach out and run his fingers through it, to throw down his tea and draw her close, to kiss away any hesitation, any uncertainty she might be feeling. He had won her over, once, with kindness, with self-effacing confidence - not arrogance, never that, for she detested such pride - and what he had learned, all those years before, was that Ruth need words, needed that reassurance, but more than anything, she needed actions. She needed him to tell her, often, how he cared for her, but then she also needed him to show it. It would not be enough, now, for him to tell her how fond he was of Emma; he would have to demonstrate it.

"I think that would be lovely," he said.

In the darkness she smiled, still swaying gently, as if she had quite forgotten that it was a mug of tea and not a baby she held cradled in her hands. "There's a children's museum in town I think they'd quite like to visit, if you're feeling adventurous."

It was a welcome suggestion, and one he would take under advisement. He _was_ feeling adventurous, as it happened, but not in the way she thought; his heart was beginning to race, at her proximity, and his mind was rapidly kicking into overdrive, trying to imagine how she might respond if he looped his arm around her waist, if he drew her near, if he kissed her gently on the cheek, if he told her how radiant she was, how dearly he missed her. Pros and cons, he weighed each possible outcome quickly, hoping to find some way forward.

"I'd like for Emma to get a little more comfortable with you, before we tell her," Ruth said softly. She shot him strange look, and then added in a tentative sort of voice, "you know, I wouldn't let just anyone take my child for the afternoon."

"I know," he answered, for he did. Harry did not need to know all the details of her life and her childcare arrangements to know that Ruth would defend their girl fiercely, with everything she had. And he knew, too, what she was trying to convey to him, that she still trusted him absolutely, that she recognized he was her daughter's father, that he deserved a chance to get to know her. It was a chance he was grateful for.

"I know she wasn't planned," she told him, not daring to look at him now. "I know the timing couldn't have been worse. But she's...Harry, she's miraculous. And I'm so happy you've had the chance to meet her."

It was a heavy confession, one he knew that Ruth must have found terribly difficult to make, and yet she had spoken, just the same, had found the courage to share this piece of her heart with him. Over the last twenty-four hours he had imagined, over and over, how hard it must have been for her, alone, pregnant, scared, without a friend to turn to, had wondered how on earth she had managed it, had been reminded, time and time again, of how bloody brilliant she really was. It was not in her nature to ask for help, or admit to the wounds that scored her heart, but she had opened herself up to him now, and he wanted to return such trust with an equal openness. Much as it might pain him.

"She's a wonderful child," he said slowly, "and that's down to you, Ruth. And as happy as you may be, I have to tell you, I am...I don't think I have the words for it. I never expected to find you, and I certainly never expected to find her, and now that I have…"

His voice trailed off, for Ruth was looking up at him with those eyes he loved so well, luminous, brighter than the midday sun, her every thought, emotion, hope, on grand display for him. How could he speak, in the face of such sincere beauty? He had told her that he did not have the words, and he didn't, he truly didn't, and so he did what he had been dreaming about since he saw her the night before. He placed his cup upon the table and reached out to her, his palm cradling her cheek, his fingertips brushing through her soft hair. Ruth gasped, once, a quiet, unconscious sort of sound, and as he watched her he could see her warring with herself. They had been so long apart, and emotions were running high, given all that had been revealed since they had stumbled across one another. Likely she was asking herself if this was wise, if it was fair to Emma, to Ruth's own shattered heart, to allow him to draw close to her again when he must inevitably leave. It would fall to him, to prove to her his dedication to her and to their daughter, to their whole family, to show her just how much she meant to him, how willing he was to do anything, everything she asked of him.

"Some things do not change, Ruth," he told her. It would not do, to push her too hard, to be brash and demanding, to take advantage of her vulnerability. Their future depended on his behavior in this moment, and so he made no grand declarations, did not crash into her with all the force of his desire, did not fall to her feet to beg for her. Simple words he offered her, conveying a world of meaning; _my love you has not changed,_ his heart whispered, and he could only hope she understood. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, once, tenderly, and then withdrew from her entirely.

To his great delight, she reached up and pressed the tips of her fingers to the very spot he'd kissed, her eyes round and rather shocked, but not displeased.

 _Enough._ He told himself. _Enough for now._

They had time, yet, to unpick their troubles. Time to make a plan, time for more confessions, time for whispered hopes. He would not overwhelm her now, much as he might long to, would content himself to waiting for some sign from her that she was as ready, as wanting, as willing as he to see what sort of future they might make, together.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ruth," he said, and before she could reply he turned away and slipped off into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

"Mr. Harry?" Emma asked they walked along, admiring an exhibit of dinosaur fossils at the local museum. She was holding tightly to his left hand while Gabe held his right, Louis leading their merry band with all the enthusiasm his little body could muster.

Harry hummed, looking down at her and feeling a soft, foolish sort of smile tug up the corners of his lips unbidden. She was a lovely child, truthfully, with her soft blonde curls and her mother's huge, arrestingly blue eyes, and she had quite enchanted him. As they meandered through the museum she had asked all sorts of strange, insightful questions he did not have the answer to in a manner that was so alarmingly reminiscent of Ruth that her connection to this child could hardly be denied. This little girl, bright and brilliant and cheerful and friendly - if a bit shy around strangers - had been raised by the most wonderful woman he had ever known, and the touch of Ruth's gentle hand showed in everything little Emma said and did.

Added to that, of course, was the knowledge that Emma was _his_ child, as well, his flesh and blood, though he had not been there for her birth, her first steps, her first words. The thought of all that he had missed pained him, even now, with her little hand clasped tight in his own. He was much too old to contemplate starting a new family, but Emma was _here_ , and he delighted in her. Throughout the afternoon he had watched her, spoken with her, smiled at her, and felt the pull of his life back in London weakening with each passing second. His daughter - his _daughters -_ were here, in this little town in this godforsaken country, his grandchildren were here, _Ruth_ was here, and there was nothing in London that promised him the kind of joy, the kind of peace, the kind of hope he had found in this place. Ruth had given up her very life to keep him safe upon the wall, and her sacrifice had earned him seven years of solitude, of hell, of grief. He had done all that he could. His bones were weary, his team quite capable, and he was rapidly approaching the stage in life when one must confront one's own mortality. He would not be around forever, and as he considered how he would like to spend the rest of his days, his thoughts kept drifting back to the two chairs on Ruth's back porch, the sweltering heat, the trilling of the crickets, the softness of her hand in his.

"You talk funny."

Harry laughed, and Louis spun around, his attention momentarily diverted from the skeletons and shiny, varicolored placards.

"He doesn't talk funny," Louis said, sticking up for his granddad at once. "He talks like mum."

"He does," Emma allowed graciously. "Are you from London? Mumma is from London and she talks funny, too."

They ground to a halt beside a display of bones in a glass case. Gabe, who would turn four the very next day, had long since lost interest and was alternating between sullen silence and demanding to go home. Louis and Emma, who were both six, had been displaying far more interest, but it seemed that the manner of Harry's speech was suddenly far more interesting to the pair of them than the old bones that surrounded them.

"I am from London," Harry said slowly. "Sometimes, people who live in different places have a different way of speaking. It's called an accent."

"Is London a big city?" Emma asked him curiously.

"It's the biggest!" Louis chimed in before Harry could answer her. "There's castles and bridges and the queen lives there and mummy says that one day she'll take us there to visit."

Louis seemed quite pleased with himself, but he was a well-meaning lad, and Emma didn't seem to take offense at his superior tone. The trademark Pearce confidence made itself known in Harry's oldest grandson, but the children played together often, and no doubt Emma was quite used to Louis and his fondness for being right.

"It is a very big city," Harry told them both gently. "It's not the biggest city in the whole world, but it is the biggest city in England."

"Did you know mumma, when she lived in London?" Emma asked him, craning her head to look up at him.

"Do you know the Queen?" Louis interrupted excitedly before Harry could even begin to wrap his head around the little girl's question.

"Home!" Gabe howled morosely.

"Why don't we all go home and have a snack?" Harry suggested, at once grateful for the distraction and somewhat saddened by the fact that he could not answer Emma's question. Not now. Not yet. Ruth wanted him to spend a bit more time with the girl first, to ease her into their acquaintance, and he knew it would have to be Ruth, and not himself, who finally decided when the time was right to tell her. He only hoped that it would be soon; Gabe's birthday was the next day, and they had a little party planned for Saturday, and then Harry was set to depart on Sunday. There wasn't a great deal of time left for them to decide their plan of attack, and he did not want to waste a single moment of it.

* * *

The moment Ruth parked the car she made her way across the grass to Cate's house, eager to see her child, to see for herself that Harry and all three of the little ones had survived the afternoon unscathed. Ruth and Cate had both been called to the university for staff meetings, but as they worked in different departments they had not seen one another, and it seemed that Ruth had beaten her friend back home. Much as she adored Cate she was glad of this, for it would give her the chance to speak to Harry unsupervised, if only for a few minutes. She had done rather a lot of thinking, during her interminable meeting, and she had reached a decision as regarded their current precarious situation, a decision she wanted to share with him at once.

As she stepped through the door she had her mouth open to call out a greeting, but she stopped short as she took in the vision of domestic bliss unfolding before her.

The front door opened directly into the sitting room, which was dominated by a large, L-shaped sofa. Harry was tucked into the corner, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, his breathing so deep and even that Ruth was certain he was asleep. He had his arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa, with Louis under one arm and Emma under the other, both of them lounging against him as they slept, little Gabe curled up on his lap, his face pressed against his grandfather's chest, his little thumb still in his mouth. It was quite the sweetest thing she'd ever seen, Harry in repose and surrounded by the children, all of them comfortable and happy together. What touched her most, however, was the knowledge that Emma felt safe enough to rest within the circle of his arms, that whatever they had done this afternoon had served to carve out a place for Harry in their daughter's heart. Maybe, she told herself, just maybe, everything would be all right.

As quietly as she could she closed the door behind her, and snapped a quick picture of the four of them on her phone, texting it to Cate at once, knowing that her friend would appreciate this sight as much as did she. And when that was done, she crossed the room on silent feet, reaching out to smooth a gentle hand over Harry's rumpled hair.

He sighed, his eyelashes fluttering as he drew himself up from the land of dreams, and Ruth indulged herself for a moment, rubbing her fingertips over his scalp in the way she knew he liked, warmth curling low in her belly at the memory of a dozen fond embraces, a hundred gentle moments, a thousand tender words. They had, for so brief a time, been everything to one another, and she had treasured the memory of those sleepy mornings spent together, Harry warm and soft and affectionate beside her, no trace of the troubles that plagued him during his working hours. This, she saw as she looked at him, was Harry, just Harry, no titles, no responsibilities, just a man, a man who loved his children and his grandchildren, a man who had, however long ago, loved _her._

"Ruth," he said her name softly, and she jolted back to awareness, blushing at having been caught out staring at him dreamily. His eyes were warm and kind, not teasing or rebuking; it seemed to her that he was rather pleased by the manner in which she'd chosen to wake him.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper. He was handsome, and kind, and strong, and she knew that this had to be her moment. Now, when he was looking at her that way, when he had spent the day with the children, when his mind was not on work or anything else, now when she was feeling so kindly disposed towards him, before her courage deserted her utterly.

"Of course," he answered.

Ponderously he rose to his feet, the children stirring but fading back into sleep as they nestled amongst the sofa cushions without his bulk there to hold them up. Harry and Ruth both stood there a moment, hesitating, taking in the wonder of this sight, the youngest members of their little family all at peace, before they moved as one, heading for the kitchen.

Eager to find some way to keep her hands busy and off of Harry Ruth made a beeline for the kettle. She had spent enough time in Cate's kitchen to know where everything was, and she set to with a will. For his part Harry seemed amused by her sudden flurry of activity; he lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching her in that unnerving way he had, but then he was moving, his steps taking him unerringly to her side. He propped himself up against the counter, cool and casual as if this were a common occurrence between the pair of them, making tea in his daughter's kitchen while their own daughter slept in the next room.

"What did you want to talk about, Ruth?" he prodded after a moment, when her churning thoughts betrayed her and no sound passed her lips.

The time had come. Ruth had made her choice, and she needed to tell him, needed to talk this through with him, properly.

"I've been thinking," she began, her eyes fixed firmly on her task, gathering cups and sugar and tea bags and doing her very best not to look at him. "About when we ought to tell Emma."

"And what have you decided?" There was a note of concern to his voice; oh, he tried to hide it, but she knew him far too well, had learned long ago to see through his spook's mask to the very heart of him. He was worried that she had decided not to tell Emma at all, and that thought troubled Ruth a great deal. Surely he knew her better than that?

"I don't think it should be tomorrow, because that's Gabe's birthday. Tomorrow should be about him," Ruth explained. "But I think we could tell her on Thursday. I think that would be best."

She held her breath, waiting for his response, fully prepared to defend herself, if need be. Today would be no good; the children would be overstimulated and wrung out from the museum, and the truth might place a dark cloud over Gabe's birthday. The next day likewise would be no good, for the same reason. Thursday, though, Thursday would be perfect. Ruth had no plans that day, and it would give Harry and Emma more time to spend together before the party on Saturday, before Harry's inevitable departure. It seemed to Ruth the most reasonable solution, but as always, her nerves defied her every attempt at logic, left her feeling apprehensive and uncertain. Suppose Harry had changed his mind? Suppose he had already said something to Emma, despite Ruth asking him not to? Suppose-

"I think that's for the best," Harry agreed, and Ruth sighed, the tension leaving her all at once. For the first time since they'd left the sitting room she dared to look at him, and her breath caught at the sight of his face.

He was not the most handsome of men. Ruth loved him enough to admit that to herself. There were more lines on his face, now, and he was a bit more portly than he had been, before, but he remained, to her eyes, utterly lovely. His shoulders were broad and strong, his arms still muscular despite the passage of time, his lips full and soft, his eyes that warm shade of honey. His hair had grown a bit long, and curled most appealingly just above his collar. The best thing about his face by far, however, was the fact that it was _his,_ that when she looked at him she remembered exactly the way he used to make her feel, their love, their trust, their faith in one another shining through so brilliantly. When she looked at him her knees went weak, remembering the way he used to touch her, fill her, consume her, the tender words he used to whisper in her ear as he buried himself inside her, as he rested with his head pillowed on her lap. She looked at him and she remembered all of it, the fear, the bliss, the heat that was life with Harry Pearce, and she loved him, truly. In that moment, she loved him.

"She is the most wonderful little girl," Harry told her softly, and she could see the truth of his affection for the child written in every line of his dear face. "And that's all because of you. I am so _proud_ of you, Ruth. Of both of you."

Words escaped her, in that moment. He was looking at her the way he used to, right before he kissed her, all heat and passion and want and love, his words comforting her, reassuring her, wrapping around her like a blanket, the familiar warmth of his bulk beside her stirring that desire that had laid dormant in her heart since the day she left him by the riverside. He had said exactly the right thing, for all she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was for him to be proud of her, to be proud of her work, her mind, the child she'd brought into the world born of her love for this man. She had wondered, countless times, what he might feel when finally he learned the truth, what he might think of her, and he had surpassed her every expectation, had answered her every doubt with the same steady, quiet, confident love that had won her over so many years before. She was his, wholly and without reservation, even now, after all this time. She always had been.

"Harry," she breathed his name, spellbound by the intensity of the moment and the sudden wash of emotion that threatened to consume her.

Emboldened by the sound of her voice he reached out, cradled her cheek in his palm, his body shifting, moving, wrapping around hers, his movements deliberate and yet slow, slow enough to give her the chance to step away. Though her heart was racing she did no such thing; she simply reached out, one of her arms snaking around his waist as he enveloped her, the fingertips of her free hand finding purchase in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

"Ruth," he breathed her name, his eyes full of wonder, leaning towards her as they were drawn together by the pull of desire and affection that coursed between them as inevitable as gravity. Ruth's eyes fluttered closed, her heart racing, lips parting in preparation for his kiss. _God,_ but she wanted that, wanted the taste of him on her tongue once more, his broad hands ghosting over her body, the safety, the comfort, the torrent of want she always felt whenever he held her close. His breath washed over her skin, warm, enticing, intoxicating, but before his lips founds hers the front door opened and Cate called out a breezy greeting, and they sprung apart like startled rabbits.

"In here," Harry called back, no trace of agitation in his voice though his chest was heaving and his eyes were a little wild. Quickly, before Cate could find them, he placed a chaste kiss against the rise of Ruth's cheek and then stepped away, and she felt the loss of him manifest as a physical ache in her chest.


	12. Chapter 12

Emma's eyes fluttered closed and Ruth smiled, reaching out to stroke a gentle hand over her daughter's hair while she continued to sing, softly, lulling the child into sleep. It had been a long, eventful day for one so small, but a good day, it seemed, for Emma had woken from her nap wide-eyed and bursting with a thousand questions. Always the questions; Emma was full of a boundless sort of curiosity for everyone and everything around her, and Ruth did her best to nurture her daughter's inquisitiveness, to encourage her joy and her sense of wonder for a world that so often left Ruth feeling nothing but fear. She had guarded her steps, every moment of every day for the last seven years, memories of dark things haunting her in the still of the night; the sharp, terrible ring of gunfire echoing through the coms as Danny drew his last breath, the distant crack of a bomb while the floor of the church trembled beneath her feet, the weight of a gun heavy in her own hand. These things Ruth remembered, and lamented each time she looked at her child. Emma's life was a comfortable one, a safe one, far from those horrors, but Ruth carried the memories within her, knowing that the darkness waited for her, that the moment might one day come when it returned to claim her.

The song drew to an end and Ruth leaned down to drop a tender kiss against her daughter's forehead.

Yes, the darkness might come for her one day. She feared it had when she walked into Cate's kitchen and saw Harry standing there; terror and elation had warred within her, for she longed more than anything to see him, and yet she could not help but worry that wherever he went trouble was sure to follow. It was not his fault, it was simply the nature of his existence; he had assumed a power and a responsibility that required him to pay a terrible price. And yet, his arrival had been for the most benign reason imaginable, and he had been nothing but kind to Ruth and her daughter - _their_ daughter - from the moment of their reunion. It was hard, seeing him as he was now, dressed in casual clothes and romping about with the children, to picture him as anything other than what he seemed to be, a man rapidly approaching sixty, a hopeful father, a doting grandfather. And yet danger lurked within him; Ruth knew that better than most, having read the entirety of his personnel file, having seen, time and time again, how ruthless, how terrible he could be. He was, somehow, a beast and a prince, both at once, and she loved him for his darkness much as she loved him for his tenderness.

"Mumma," Emma murmured as Ruth made to leave her, and Ruth cursed herself for lingering; it was late, and Emma had been so close to sleep, but Ruth had not chosen her moment of departure well, and now it seemed that her daughter was once more clinging to wakefulness.

"Sleep, love," Ruth told her gently.

"Is Mister Harry going to stay forever?" Emma asked her, not bothering to open her eyes.

The question caught Ruth unawares, and she swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat at the thought. She had no idea, of course, how to answer that question, for she did not know herself what he intended, or even what she wanted from him. Perhaps he might choose to stay here in this sweltering little town, to be close to his family, to spend more time with Emma, with Ruth herself. Perhaps the bliss of a quiet life called to him now as it never could have done before, when he was young and convinced of his own invincibility. Or perhaps he was, even now, making arrangements for his return, dead set on living out the rest of his days at his post. Ruth did not know, and she could not say which solution seemed best to her own mind. It would be lovely, of course, having him near, giving Emma the chance to come to know her father, but their relationship had only just begun when it was cut short, and a part of Ruth still worried that one day he might see the truth of her, and decide he wanted no part of it. He belonged in Thames House, to her mind, doing the work to which he had dedicated his whole life, and she could not dream of asking him to turn aside from it for her own sake.

"No," she said at last, for much as her own heart was consumed with doubt she felt that Emma deserved a definite answer. "He goes back to London on Sunday."

"Oh," Emma said softly, sadly, and the sound of her disappointment tore at Ruth's heartstrings. "I like him," she told Ruth for the second time. "I don't want him to go."

 _Neither do I,_ Ruth thought glumly, for in truth she didn't; she couldn't say for certain that she wanted him to stay forever, but one week seemed too short a time for them to spend together, and she was already dreading the day when he would inevitably depart. Rather than giving voice to her own sorrow she simply began to sing again, and carried on until Emma was well and truly asleep.

The moment she could she slipped from her daughter's bedroom and made her way down the stairs on silent feet. The last three days had been a whirlwind of madness, emotions that had for so long lain dormant rising up like great slumbering beasts prodded from their den to shred her to pieces in their search for vengeance. She loved Harry, she worried she hardly knew him, she wanted him to get to know their daughter, she wanted to protect Emma from the inevitable loss of him, she feared that now that he had found her someone else, someone more nefarious might come to find her, too, and shatter the beautiful life that she had built. It was all too much, and so she set off for the kitchen, intent upon a glass of wine.

It was not to be, however, for as she stepped into the kitchen there came a soft tapping upon her back door. Startled - and yet somehow certain who she would find - Ruth turned on the lights, and saw Harry, standing by the door with a bottle of wine in his hand.

All thoughts of a quiet, restful evening now forgotten Ruth went to him, opening the door and welcoming him inside.

"I thought you might like this," Harry said, handing over the wine with a strange little smile playing across his lips.

Ruth did not smile, for when she took the bottle she saw at once that it was white Burgundy, and she knew at once that this choice had been intentional. He wanted her to remember, not just the night he'd first taken her to dinner, but all the nights they had sat together in his home, drinking this wine at the table, on the sofa, in bed, in the bath. He wanted her to remember all that they had meant to one another, once, all that had come before their unexpected separation and equally unexpected reunion, but what Ruth could not determine was _why._ He had very nearly kissed her, as they stood together in Cate's kitchen earlier in the day. Had he come to ply her with wine in hopes that he might wheedle a kiss - or more - from her at last?

 _No,_ she told herself. _No._ His eyes were soft and kind, and he was not prowling towards her, pushing her, pressing her, was not staring her with that expression on his face that spoke so plainly of his desire to eat her alive. He had simply come to her, as old friends will, with a reminder of happier times, and she decided to accept it as such.

"Have a seat, Harry," she told him. "I'll pour."

And so they did, Harry folding himself into one of the chairs at her little table while Ruth fetched down two glasses and filled them before stowing the bottle in the fridge. She joined him at once, placing one glass in front of him while she cradled the other in her hands, taking a sip and trying to ignore the way her heart sang at the familiar taste, the tangible reminder of so many beautiful nights gone by.

"You did well today," she told him softly. "The children loved the museum."

Harry gave her a bemused sort of luck. "I've never been much good with children," he confessed. "I never seem to know what to say."

And of course he didn't; he had spent his youth chasing terrorists and thwarting assassination attempts, and had failed, rather spectacularly, at bonding with his own children. And now he was older, and wiser, and sadder, and even Ruth could admit that he was at times a bit awkward with the little ones. But he did his best, and she loved him for it.

"Really, Harry," she told him, reaching out impulsively to lay her hand atop his own on the table. "They love you."

His look was very direct, as if he had been trying to determine the truth of her words and somewhere along the way had got lost in a feeling that Ruth remembered all too well from the heady days of their short lived romance, and she snatched her hand back as if it had been burned.

"Ruth," he said, seeing her sudden discomfort and seizing upon it, the way he so often did, as an opportunity to press her for more. "Are you happy here? Truly? Do you not want to go back to London?"

In truth, Ruth missed London every day. The streets, the people, South Bank and the Shard and the Tower and the Eye and Camden Market and all the rest. She missed the bench by the riverside where she and Harry used to sit, sometimes, to discuss matters deemed too sensitive for his office. She missed St James' Park and St Martin-in-the-Fields, and she missed Harry. She missed _Harry,_ most of all. She missed the way he made her laugh, the way he made her fight, the way he challenged her, delighted her, protected her, loved her. She missed him, quite terribly.

"Of course I do," she breathed into the stillness. "But my daughter's life is here. What will happen to us, if we go back? No university will hire Ruth Evershed. What will I do? Teach sixth form? And what about Emma? What if...what if someone _finds_ her, Harry?"

Her terror at the very thought was palpable, and it was Harry's turn to reach out, to grasp her hand in his own. "I _will_ protect you, Ruth. Regardless of what happens next. You will be safe, both of you. I'm not telling you that you have to move back to London. I'm asking what you want."

She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, and she was at once immediately, irrevocably lost. The warmth of his steady gaze, the want, the yearning she saw in him, the heat of his hand wrapped around her own, the full pout of his lips, the closeness of him; it was more than she could bear.

"I don't know," she breathed, suddenly feeling trapped, and yet not wanting to escape, wanting to linger here in this moment where he held her so enthralled. "What do you want, Harry?"

It was a bold question, but they did not have much time, and already she felt their old closeness returning. For all the years that had passed he was still Harry, in his heart, in his soul, and she knew him, just as he knew her. With a single look they could communicate a world of meaning, with the brush of his hand he could whisper a thousand truths to her wanting heart, and in the silence she heard his answer long before he spoke.

"I want you to be happy, Ruht," he told her, and then, though she could not say exactly how it happened, she was on her feet and in his arms.

At once she was totally, completely overwhelmed by him. Her hands caught in the soft curls at the nape of his neck and his arms slung low around her waist and their bodies crashed together even as his lips claimed hers in searing, damning kiss. He wasted no time, and she accepted the sudden rush of his ardor with every piece of herself, her body molding to him as her lips parted and his tongue surged forward to taste her. A soft sound that might have been a whimper escaped her as she gave herself over to this sensation, as beautiful, as raw, as powerful as she remembered. There existed between them a tie that could never be broken, a bond that had been sealed long before the birth of their child, when Ruth was still young and full of hope and Harry had found her and shown her a world she had never before imagined, a world full of passion, of love, of possibility, as much as it was full of pain and grief.

The seconds passed and yet their desire only grew; her nails raked down the back of his neck while his palms pressed flat against her body, drawing her still closer to him until they were tumbling, falling back, desperate for some surface to beach themselves upon. Her back collided with the wall and her tongue danced alongside his own and their panting breaths mingled, merged, became one. His hand reached, caught the back of her thigh, and she moved with him willingly, wrapping one leg around his hip, drawing him into the shelter of her thighs. She could feel him, hot and strong and wanting, and her whole being pulsed with a similar need, but _oh,_ they could not do this now.

With a gasp she tore her lips from his and rested her forehead against his collarbone, breathing like a bellows while he ran a gentle hand over her hair.

"We can't, Harry," she told him softly. "Emma's just upstairs, if she were to see…"

"I know," his voice rumbled through his chest, filling her whole body with the sensation of it. "I know."

"And I can't do this, Harry," she added, finding it easier to maintain her resolve when she could not see his face. "What happens when you leave? I couldn't bear it, to lose you again."

He moved so quickly she gave a little yelp of surprise; he pushed her leg back into place and caught her face in his hands, holding her close to him, so close she could see the fire in his eyes.

"You will not lose me, Ruth," he told her fiercely. "Whatever happens next, whatever you decide, I will always, always be here for you. In whatever capacity you prefer."

He was beautiful, at such close range, sincere and full of heat, of passion, just for _her,_ so close she could feel him, smell him, still taste him on her tongue. He pressed one last kiss against her lips and then he turned and marched straight out the door, and as he went he took a piece of Ruth's heart with him.

She knew what he was doing, why he had chosen to leave at such a pivotal moment. With his words he had firmly placed the decision in her hands, and Harry knew Ruth, better than anyone else in the world. He knew that she would need time, space to make up her mind, that she would rebel against any pressure he might exert upon her, and so he had departed, to give her time to think. It was the kindest thing he could have done, and yet it left her full of sorrow, for in truth she wanted nothing more than to kiss him again.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a bad idea, and she knew it. Harry had gone, had left her, as he should have done, given that it was late, that their daughter was sleeping upstairs, that he had only been back in her life for three days. He had sworn his devotion and departed before thoughtless words and reckless hands made a mess of them both, before they tumbled from kisses into something sweeter, something deeper, something altogether more dangerous. Memories beckoned to her, though, memories languid and lush with yearning, with passion, with the heady warmth of love recalled so well. _What does it matter,_ her desperate heart whispered, _how much time has passed? He loved you once, and you loved him, and you have chance, now, to fix what has been broken._

For years she had dreamed of him, and now here he was, in the house next door, close enough that she could still feel him against her skin, the taste of him still lingering on her parted lips. She had always been hesitant with him, yes, had been shy, reluctant to start an affair with a man so much older, so much less restrained, so very inappropriate. But he had won her over with the tenderness of his affections, and she had not forgotten, even for a moment, how completely he adored her. _Surely some things do not change,_ her heart urged her. _Some doors, once opened, can never be closed._

She was sitting very still on the edge of the sofa with her mobile clasped in her hands. Harry had a mobile of his own, and he'd given her the number when she'd left Emma in his care earlier in the day. It was a bad idea, but her fingertips itched to reach out to him, to type out a message from her wanting heart to his, to answer the question he had asked her earlier in the evening.

 _What do you want, Ruth?_

The answer was at once simple, and infuriatingly complex. She wanted _Harry,_ wanted the touch of his hand, wanted their daughter to know her father, wanted their family whole and safe. That was easy enough. How she wanted to go about getting those things, how she wanted to arrange their future, that was the riddle she could not solve, the twist in the maze she had not foreseen and did not dare venture towards. Not yet, at any rate. She knew Harry wanted much the same, though he was equally unsure how they ought to go about achieving their goals. _We've always been very good at solving riddles together,_ she thought, the ghost of a smile tugging up the corners of her lips.

After all, wasn't that what had drawn them together in the first place, the complementary nature of their minds, their sensibilities so very different and yet balancing one another, working together to find the answers they sought? They had foiled terrorist plots and assassination attempts and saved their beloved realm from ruin time and time again; surely something as mundane as their domestic arrangements could be sorted if they put their formidable intellects to work on the problem, together. Couldn't it?

 _The back door is unlocked._

She sent her words whispering out into the darkness between them, a message short and sweet and to the point, and yet heavy with meaning. Surely, she told herself, he would understand what it was she telling him. What it was she was asking of him.

Tense and silent she waited, clutching her mobile in her hands as if it were a rosary. Ruth had never been particularly devout; churches she adored for their architecture, their art, their stories, but she was not at home there. She had studied religion and history and myths and magic, and was possessed of a kindly disposition towards the spiritual, but she was not one for whispered prayers, except in moments of direst calamity, when her thoughts would ring through her mind like a bell, begging whatever force existed greater than herself for a way through her current trial. This was such a moment, as she remained trapped in a moment of endless waiting, her thoughts pounding out the words _please please please_ in time to the beating of her heart. Whether she was speaking to god or to Harry she could not say, but still her fervent thoughts sent out their plea to the universe.

It was a plea that was answered in a moment, as she heard the sound of the back door opening from the kitchen. She was on her feet in a moment, rushing out from the sitting room, though she was stopped dead in her tracks by the sight that waited for her there.

Harry was standing on the other side of the kitchen. His shirt was untucked and half-unbuttoned, as if he had been in the very act of undressing when her message came to him. His feet were bare, his eyes wild, his hair a mess, his belt nowhere in sight. His gaze caught hers, held her, set her alight with need, and despite herself she gasped and dropped her mobile at once. The clatter of it striking the floor did not even register in her mind, so completely overwhelmed was she by the hunger in Harry's gaze. Ruth knew what she had unleashed, allowing him to come back to her after their earlier heated embrace, after he had so gallantly left the decision in her hands, knew what it was she had asked for, inviting him in so late at night, after all that they had shared. She had not been asking him round for tea and a chat, and he was in no mood to talk.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he prowled towards her, bare feet making no sound on the floorboards, and for her part Ruth remained rooted to the spot, watching his approach, soaking in the heat of the moment, trying to prepare herself for what was to come. She remembered all too well how beautiful, how devastating they could be together, how his broad hands could shatter her like glass, how she welcomed that delicious abandon with open arms. In this moment, there was nothing she wanted more.

"Ruth," he all but growled her name, eyes dark, chest heaving as he struggled to contain himself and his desire for her, a desire she felt coiling within her own heart, leaving her breathless and eager for him.

"Ask me again, Harry," she whispered as still he drew closer.

His steps faltered for a moment, his brow furrowing as he tried to work out her meaning, but then he pieced it together, and he smiled. Recovered now he resumed his pace, moving forward until at last he was close enough to reach out and touch her. Gently, reverently, he cradled her cheek in his palm, and without a second thought she raised her hand and pressed her palm against his chest, just above his pounding heart.

"What do you want, Ruth?" he murmured to her in the darkness.

"You."

It was just as well that she had no other words to give him, for the moment she spoke he drew her hard against him and his lips crashed into hers and all her doubts, all her worries, faded into nothing. There were questions still to be answered, but now was not the time to ask them, not now when his fingers were tangling in her hair and his hand was pressed hard to the small of her back and his tongue was surging against her own. Ruth's hands scrabbled across his chest, slipping through the gap where he'd left his buttons undone in search of the heat of his skin, rushing up the slope of his throat to catch at the back of his neck. She clung to him, lips parting, gasping, begging for more, and still he pressed her, pulled her closer, kissed her harder. With a steady purpose he pushed her back until she met the resistance of the kitchen wall, and there his campaign to once more claim her for his own began in earnest.

While her hands mapped the plane of his back and ruffled the unruly curls at the nape of his neck his own traveled the shape of her, running over waist and hips until one clenched firmly to the swell of her bottom and the other slipped across the back of her thigh, catching hold and kneading her roughly through her soft black trousers. In the push and pull of their bodies she heard his unspoken command and moved with him in an instant, hooking her leg around his hip and gasping at the sudden friction of his body driving into hers, nestling into the sanctuary she had created for him and grinding against her purposefully. She could feel him hard through his trousers and the sudden bloom of her own arousal in response was nearly her undoing. Though one of his hands remained firm around her thigh the other slipped beneath the soft shirt she wore, fingertips brushing against the swell of her breast, drawing a gasp and a shiver from her lips, his answering grin delighted and eager.

No, she did not know what would become of them, but in the moment, she did not care. Everything was Harry, still strong, still powerful, still overwhelming, still utterly, undeniably hers, even after all this time. The years had not stolen him from her; he was still here, in her arms, between her thighs, where he belonged. He was not dead, was not beyond the call of her soft voice, was not resisting or denying her; he was, with every movement of his body, with the brush of his tongue and the press of his lips, giving himself to her, again and again, and she took from him greedily, eager for the everything she'd missed, every day she spent without him.

As appealing as it might have been, to let him have her there against the wall, she knew that neither of them was as young as they once had been - and they had never been young together - and so she knew that they must somehow find the strength to leave the shelter of the kitchen and seek out a soft place to land with their dreams and their love and their towering desire. With some reluctance she tore her lips from his, pressing a kiss to his jaw before resting her head back against the wall, staring up at him in wonder. His eyes were unfathomably dark, pupils blown wide with want, his lips still parted as if in search of her own, his hand still anchoring her leg about his waist. His thinning hair was more grey than blonde, now, and there was a smattering of stubble across his cheeks, and the lines at his brow and the corners of his mouth had deepened, but he was still so terribly handsome, so wonderfully lovely, and she grinned at him suddenly, wild and free.

Without a word she pushed him back with both hands against his chest. Harry released his hold on her at once, disappointment plain on his face, but then she caught his hand with her own, turned, and resolutely led him to the sitting room. They could not go upstairs, could not risk the creaking of the floorboards underfoot, the snap of the door as it closed, the squeaking of the bed as it shifted beneath their weight, but there was a large and more than serviceable sofa in the sitting room, and Ruth was determined that they would see this thing through, together, that they would seal the unspoken commitment of their hearts to one another in that place, in that moment, before fear snatched away this one shining chance for them to find their joy together.

* * *

Harry's heart was pounding, as Ruth led him to the sitting room. From the moment he'd first seen her standing in Catherine's kitchen he had longed for this, for her soft and warm beneath his hands, for the old remembered comfort of her companionship, for the soft sound of her voice, for the sense of completeness she brought to him. He knew what she was doing, as she led him to the sofa, and as they came to a stop he pulled her into his arms, hungry for her kiss, for another chance to taste her, to show her just how much she meant to him. He held her close, his hands once more slipping beneath her shirt in search of the weight of her breast, her own clasped tight to the curve of his bum, drawing him tight to her as her hips swayed in an intoxicating rhythm against his own. _How should we do this_ he asked himself, but then it seemed Ruth had already asked herself that question, and already found an answer to it.

With a gleam in her eye she stepped away from him, and with gentle hands against his chest she pressed him back so that in a moment he was sitting on the sofa, his hands on his knees, staring up at her in wonder. As he watched she smiled, and slipped her trousers off her hips.

His mouth went dry at the sight of her, the smooth, elegant curve of her long legs, the lace of her knickers, the span of her hips, everything about her feminine, and soft, and lovely, but then she was grinning at him, slipping out of her the rest of her clothes and revealing the most intimate parts of herself to his hungry eyes. Soft breasts and rose pink nipples and the thatch of dark hair at the apex of her thighs; _Christ,_ but she was beautiful. He would never tire of this, of the sight of her, her beauty, the truth of her person revealed to him without all the layers of soft - and occasionally strange - clothes with which she hid herself from view. He reached for her, desperate to touch her, but she slipped out of his grasp, dropping to her knees as graceful as a dancer.

A strangled groan escaped him as she nudged his thighs apart, making room for her to kneel between them, utterly naked, his eyes locked on the straining swells of her neat breasts, bigger now than in his memories, but still soft, still calling to him. She ran her hands the lengths of his thighs, from his knees to hips and back, teasing him, and he felt his longing for her in the almost painful throbbing of his cock. The sight she presented, coy and yet prostrate at his feet, blue eyes wide and bright and fixed on his face, was quite the most enchanting thing he'd ever seen.

She did not make him linger too long, there in that moment of impossible yearning. Those fine, delicate hands he loved so well reached for the button of his trousers, her forearm brushing against his hardness through the fabric, taunting him. _Christ,_ but he wanted her, could envision her taking him into her mouth, could almost feel the heat and the wet of her around him, memories of a hundred moments of pleasure assaulting him at once. She took her time with the button and the zip, but when her hands curled around the waistband of his trousers he lifted his hips at once, helping her as she drew down trousers and trunks together to tangle around his ankles, his cock springing forth proud and ready for her at once.

For a moment she simply looked at him, hunger and devotion and want in her eyes, and the thought that it was _Ruth,_ looking at him this way, the old way, the way he remembered, the way he had so dearly longed for, was almost more beautiful than he could bear. She was here, and real, the mother of his child, the woman he had longed for every day of the last seven years. He loved this woman, with everything he had, and he wanted, very much for her to touch him.

"Ruth," he breathed, reaching out to tangle his fingers in her hair, suddenly struck by the sheer wonder of the thought of her, the beauty of moment.

Her thick eyelashes fluttered against her pale cheeks at the touch of his hand, and then she reached for him, one hand curling around the hard muscle of his thigh while the other wrapped around the base of his shaft and he was forced to use every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from thrusting himself into her touch.

He wanted, very much, for her to continue, to hold him, to kiss him, to taste him but he knew himself, knew he was no longer as young as he might have wished. He knew what she could do to him, with hands and soft lips and swirling tongue, but he wanted more from her than that, wanted to give her every piece of himself, and not take his own pleasure without regard for her. If she were to take him in her mouth now he knew he would not be able to withstand the delicious torture of it, and so he reached for her, fingertips brushing against her jaw, trying to stop her before she rendered him utterly useless.

"Ruth," he growled, dangerously close to losing all control. "Come here."

She smiled at him, still holding his cock in her hand, a mischievous look in her eyes, and then she was scrambling up to straddle his lap in a moment. They gasped together, bumping noses and elbows as they rearranged themselves, but then she was rising up on her knees and her hand was wrapping around his cock and he was groaning her name and then, oh then…

" _Christ, Ruth"_ he gasped, and in response she only whimpered as he breached her, throwing her head back in bliss, sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly he felt he might perish with the want of her.

"Good things come to those who wait," she told him. With her hands on his shoulders she leaned towards him, her forehead resting against his own, their noses slanting together, their lips millimeters apart, sharing the same panting breaths as she moved above him, over him, around him. The soft, fluttering muscles of her sex clutched at him, drew him in, deeper and deeper. With his feet planted flat on the floor for leverage he thrust up against her, matching her languid rhythm, utterly undone by the intimacy of this moment. She was _close,_ so unbelievably, brilliantly close, warm and soft, a living, breathing piece of his heart. She was wet and welcoming, as if she had been formed to fit him, and he felt every nuance of her pleasure as she ground down against him. He wanted to take her breasts in his mouth, wanted to leave the marks of his teeth against her skin, wanted to clutch her bum, wanted to reach between them and push her over the edge into ecstasy, but the nature of their position on the sofa and the way she'd wound her body around him necessitated a focus on the immediate. There was nothing but this, the sound of his gasps, her whimpers of pleasure, her soft hair brushing against his temple light as a feather, the rising and falling of her hips, the plunge of his cock within her, over and over again. Stripped bare and desperate they moved together, rocking, grinding, shifting, desire coiling low in his belly. She was a vixen, a siren, a goddess, and he was helpless before her.

She called his name, softly, knowing she could not be as loud as she might have wished lest she wake their sleeping child, and he felt her begin to tremble, felt her sex clutching at him as at last euphoria began to overtake her, and he watched as in his arms she fell apart, tensing, bowing, yearning, her thighs grasping at him, her hips grinding against him, hungry for him, for all of him, every inch, every ounce. She keened, high and sweet, until at least she broke, and the glory of her abandon was his undoing. He tightened the hold of his arms around her body, bound her to him, and thrust into her pleasure until she was almost weeping, delirious and oversensitive, and he at last tumbled from the precipice himself, her name a fervent whisper on his lips.

* * *

They stayed just like that, until his slowly softening length finally slid out from between her thighs and she began to shiver. Cursing at the protestation of his weary limbs Harry hauled her hard against him, pulled her with him as he rolled and shifted, until her back was pressed flush to the back of the sofa and her chest was crushed against his own. There was a blanket thrown over the sofa and he took hold of it, casting it over their bodies to shelter them both from the darkness.

"What do we do now, Harry?" she asked him.

He could not see her face; she had her nose pressed tight to the soft skin of his throat, and when he looked down he saw only the soft shine of her hair.

"First we sleep," he told her, and she laughed, just a little, a small, sad sort of sound. "Then we have Gabe's birthday tomorrow. And then I'd quite like to come over again, if that's all right."

She hummed and kissed his collarbone, and he took that to mean _yes, please._

"And then we'll tell Emma the truth, and then...then we'll see what comes next."

She squirmed against him and for a moment he was terrified that she meant to leave him, but then his thigh slid between her naked legs and she let out a soft, contented sort of sound and settled down again.

"I do want to tell her, Harry," Ruth told him softly. "I want her to know you. I want her to love you."

A lump formed in his throat, and no words could escape through the sudden swelling of his emotion. He wanted that, too, more than any words could express, for he loved Emma already, with everything he had, much as he loved her - much older - brother and sister.

"But what happens when you leave?"

If in that moment Harry were forced to choose between leaving Ruth or never seeing London again, the choice would have been an easy one. It would have been Ruth, and his daughters, and his grandsons, without question. He wanted to tell her so, but he knew her, his beautiful, brilliant Ruth, and he knew that she would not believe any declarations he chose to make in this moment, when they were both of them blissful and sated and drunk on one another. He held her tight, thinking hard. He had a call with Towers scheduled for the next day, to confirm Ruth's reinstatement and the delivery of her papers to this little house. Also on the agenda was an update as regarded the current state of affairs in Section D, though in truth Harry found he did not care, so very much, about that particular point. Ros was more than capable, and Harry was old, and tired, and gone soft with love of his family. Perhaps, he told himself, that call with Towers would give him more insight, would help both he and Ruth as they struggled with this question.

"That's for us to decide together," he said at last. Yes, they would sort this out together, would determine whether his trip back to London would only last as long as it took for him to pack up his life, or whether he would need to paint the spare room in his house in whatever shade was most to Emma's liking. Whatever happened next, they would make this choice together. They had been driven apart by circumstances beyond their control once before, and he would be damned if he let such a thing happen ever again. He took a deep breath, and held Ruth closer.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry woke quite suddenly as the myriad discomforts of his current position finally made themselves known and forced him to address his untenable position. His arm was asleep, pillowed beneath Ruth's head, and there was a similar sensation in his left leg, which had somehow shifted off the sofa to rest against the floor as if in a desperate bid to keep him from falling. He was in rather urgent need of the loo, and beneath the thin blanket his skin had grown hot and sticky where it slid against Ruth's, the sultry heat infiltrating even here, to this place of refuge. They could not carry on in this fashion; it was nearly four in the morning, and he knew he'd never be able to get back to sleep. He was worried enough about the functionality of his bum knee after a few short hours in this position, and he would not compound the potential for disaster by lingering. Besides, he needed to get back to Catherine's, before he was missed, before Emma came bounding down the stairs and found her parents in such a compromising position.

 _Her parents._

He smiled, despite himself. Yes, they were both her parents, Emma the end result of the love they harbored for one another, the love that had brought them to this place, the love that bound them together, still. In his arms Ruth was adorably mussed, full lips pouting, slightly, as if he had disturbed her. He knew that he must, that the time had come for him to wake her so that they might sort themselves out, but he hated to do it, for she was sweet and soft and beautiful in her sleep. It was not often that Ruth appeared so calm and unbowed by grief, and so for a moment he simply drank in the sight of her. She had reached out to him, the night before, had offered him this chance to come to her, to show her without words just what she meant to him, how desperate he was for the life they might build together, and he was so grateful to her that in the moment he could have wept.

But then he could ignore his pressing need no longer, and so he brushed a kiss against her brow and rolled away from her. He groaned as he struggled to pull himself upright, grinning despite the fact that every inch of his body seemed to hurt. He had held her, for hours, had touched her, had felt the fire and the glory of her once again, and in the crucible of their desire he was made a new man. A happy man, for the first time in a very long while. Ruth was mumbling, shifting back against the sofa, her eyes still closed, the blanket that had covered them thrown back to reveal the luminous beauty of her in glorious detail. Her soft skin, her neat breasts, her slightly rounded tummy, her lean thighs; she was, to his mind, absolutely, gloriously perfect, in every possible way.

Still smiling he shuffled himself off to the loo, having learned on previous visits where it was, but as quickly as he could he made his way back to her.

Ruth was sitting on the sofa with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, and the picture she painted was so very forlorn and so very different from the joy that filled his heart that he paused for a moment, suddenly terrified that he had done the wrong thing in coming to her, in loving her so fully when they had not yet decided what was to become of them. She must have heard the sound of his approach, for she looked up as he neared, her eyes widening as she realized he was just as naked as she. But then, oh then, she smiled, and reached out her hand to him, and everything was all right again.

"Ruth," he said softly, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss against her palm.

"I thought you'd gone," she confessed, and his heart sang, as he realized that any distress she might have felt was caused by his absence, and not the things they had done together on that sofa.

"Not yet," he assured her, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing her. "I should, though." He cast about in search of his trunks, feeling her eyes heavy upon his back.

She sighed, and he turned to her once he'd shuffled into trunks and trousers, his mouth dropping open as he watched her stretch, catlike and contented and seemingly oblivious to the eroticism of the picture she presented. "You should," she agreed, though in truth he was hardly listening, his whole being focused on the play of her muscles beneath her soft skin. "Cate will have a fit, when she finds out where you've been."

Harry scrubbed his hands across his face, trying to regain his wits. She was probably right; though Catherine had been more understanding than she had any right to be, under the circumstances, he imagined that this would be a bit too much for her to handle at present. It would be best for everyone if they kept their little tryst to themselves.

"But I will see you later, yes?" he asked.

Ruth caught his shirt with her foot and handed it off to him, and then draped the blanket round her shoulders, pulling it in tight and hiding her nakedness from view, much to his lament.

"Yes," she agreed. "There's a nice place in town where Cate promised to take Gabe for breakfast on his birthday, but we'll come round for lunch."

"Perfect," Harry said. He slipped into his shirt and buttoned it quickly as he leaned forward to kiss her once, gently. There was an almost ethereal quality to the moment, caught out at this hour that was neither late nor early but somehow both, the pair of them lost in their newly rediscovered companionship, the old familiar comfort with one another coming back without either of them realizing just what had happened.

"I love you, Ruth," he told her softly as they parted.

She stared up at him, and his heart sank as he realized what he'd done. He had spoken those words without thinking; he had never told her outright, and in point of fact she had quite deliberately stopped him the one time he'd tried to. She spooked easily, his Ruth, anxious and uncertain, always, and he had gone and dropped a bomb right in the midst of their beautiful moment.

Though she did not try to discourage him she likewise did not return the sentiment; she simply looked up at him, lips pursed, blue eyes thoughtful and yet betraying nothing about her feelings.

"I'll see you soon," he said, somewhat lamely.

"You will." she smiled, hesitantly, and he took that smile and held it in his heart, comforted himself in knowing that she had not grown cross with him for his confession. "Good-bye, Harry."

"Good-bye, Ruth."

And so he turned, and left her there, though he wanted nothing more than to stay with her, to wrap her in his arms, to take her hand and follow her up the stairs to her bed, to sink into dreams with his arms around her.

The warmth of the night assaulted him as he made his way back to Catherine's house, the air sticky and thick with humidity, the grass damp underfoot, beads of sweat forming at the small of his back despite the fact that it was in truth a very short trip. How anyone ever got anything done in this blasted heat was a mystery to him, and he was deeply grateful when he stepped through the back door and into the blessed air conditioning of Catherine's kitchen. The two houses had clearly been built on the same plan, for though there was some minor aesthetic differences they remained virtually identical, and the strangest feeling of déjà vu overcame him as he stepped inside. Grumbling about the infernal heat he stripped out of his shirt at once, and in his distraction he did not see the looming danger until it was too late.

"And where the bloody hell have you been?" came the quiet, accusatory sound of his daughter's voice.

Harry spun on his heel, and found Catherine watching him from a stool by the edge of the counter. She was wrapped in a soft blue robe and clutching a steaming mug of something - tea, perhaps, or coffee, given that it was now just after 4:00 a.m. - and watching him with an expression of disbelief on her face. He knew the picture he presented, shirtless, now, with his hair all rucked up, his feet bare and grass-stained from the trek across the garden. Likely she knew exactly where he'd been, and from the state of him, had already guessed exactly what he'd been up to.

"It's a little early for you, isn't it?" he asked wryly, cursing his luck. She ought to have been asleep, and he ought to have been allowed at least a few moments more to enjoy the bliss that Ruth's touch had brought him, and now he found his good humor fading quite rapidly.

"Couldn't sleep," she said dismissively. And then she placed her cup down upon the table and ran her fingers through her hair. "Honestly," she said, with some heat. "I can't _believe_ you."

In that moment, Harry tried very, very hard to exercise some restraint. She had been a teenager when his marriage to Jane fell apart, and she had been just old enough to hear every word of vitriol her mother ever spoken about him, and take it to heart. Oh, Jane had not know the extent of his infidelities, the depth of his betrayal, but she had told Catherine, time and time again, how selfish, how unreliable he was, and Harry had proven those words himself each time he begged off spending a weekend with his children so that he could dedicate himself to his work. He knew how this must look to her, this sudden revelation of his connection to Ruth, the rekindling of their romance so soon after meeting one another again. Harry knew the depth of his regard for Ruth, the strength of his commitment to his family, but Catherine did not; she was not privy to the workings of his mind, did not know that even now he was trying to devise a way to spend as much of his time as he could with his family, for all the rest of his days. Perhaps, he thought, the time had come for him to tell her.

"Catherine," he said slowly, but she cut him off, irate in a way that reminded him so much of her mother he actually took a step back from her.

"I really don't want to hear what you have to say, considering you've just gone and shagged my best friend."

"For Christ's sake, Catherine, she wasn't your friend when I met her."

Harry wasn't particularly proud of himself for saying it, but he was somewhat pleased by the fact that he seemed to have found a way to put an end to her accusations, for now she was glaring at him in blessed silence. He tried again, more gently this time.

"I have known her for a very long time. I know that she's important to you. I can see why. She's a good friend to have. But Catherine, she's important to me, too."

For a long moment Catherine simply stared at him, her cheeks coloring faintly as she considered her next words - and perhaps, he hoped, reconsidered her position. She had always been possessed of a tender, romantic heart, and he could not help but wonder if, under the bluster, some piece of her might understand what it was he was telling her, might find some way to be happy for him, now that he and Ruth had found one another once again.

"Do you love her, dad?" Catherine asked him in a small voice.

He did not hesitate. Why should he, when he had already confessed the truth to Ruth herself, when he intended to do whatever was necessary to keep her in his life?

"Yes," he said. "I do."

She bit her bottom lip, just for a moment, the way she had done when she was small, and he could not help but smile. For all the differences between them Catherine was still his child, and he loved her desperately. In truth, it was Catherine herself who had taught him just what it meant to truly love another person; he had always been a bit selfish, a bit ambitious, a bit preoccupied with his own business, but having a child had shown him just how fiercely, how deeply his connection to another person could run. The first time he'd held her in his arms, it was as if the world itself had opened up before him. He had sworn, then, to do whatever he could to protect her, had looked into her little perfect face and known peace, perhaps for the first time in his entire life. Though he had not always been the most attentive father, he had known from the moment of her birth that he would burn the whole world down for her, for any of his children.

"I know that this is strange," he began, but once more she cut him off. She seemed less angry, now, and so he was more willing to overlook the interruption.

"Why did she have to leave?"

Harry knew that question had been gnawing at Catherine from the moment Ruth's true identity had been revealed, though he already answered it, somewhat obliquely. It wasn't enough, he knew. Catherine had always been a curious sort.

"Some very bad people were trying to convince me to do a very bad thing. They threatened Ruth to try to force my hand. When I wouldn't go along with it, she chose to go into exile, and save me from going to prison."

The words were heavy, and dark, and he could tell by the look on her face that Catherine had not expected to hear anything quite like that. The rest of it remained unspoken, how Ruth had done this thing for love of him, how selfless her sacrifice had been, how indebted he was to her. He did not need to say it, for he could tell from the look on her face that Catherine was putting it all together, everything he'd told her, everything Ruth had told her, and realizing, perhaps for the first time, that every word of it was true. That they had loved each other, once, more than words could say, that they deserved this chance, now, to be together at last.

"Her name is Ruth," Catherine said faintly, and it was not until that very moment that Harry realized that neither of them had actually told Catherine her real name.

"Yes," he said. "And she is one of the bravest women I have ever known."

 _And the gentlest, and the cleverest, and the saddest, too._

When Catherine did not speak Harry dared to cross the kitchen, and she waved him in the general direction of the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup before taking a seat beside her, and so they remained, father and daughter, speaking softly to one another and watching the sun rise above the trees.


	15. Chapter 15

They had begun the birthday celebrations for his youngest grandson with a trip to a local restaurant called Elmo's, a cramped little diner tucked away in the corner of a rather abject looking shopping center that did not at first seem to have any good qualities to recommend it.

"It's a local fixture," Catherine had told him with a shrug as they squeezed into a table in the center of the room, so close to their neighbors that Harry feared he was in danger of knocking elbows with their fellow diners, who mostly seemed to be hungover twenty-somethings with nothing better to do on a Wednesday morning than spend their money on greasy food and strong black coffee. "Gabe loves it."

And he did, though Harry soon learned this had more to do with Gabe's suspicion that the restaurant was owned by his favorite Sesame Street character than the food itself. Though he was in a fine mood, he couldn't resist a bit of good-natured ribbing, and he seized the opportunity to bemoan the lack of class afforded by the menu.

"Biscuits and gravy," he read aloud, genuinely confused but adding a certain dramatic woefulness to his tone. The brief description next to the item ( _one biscuit topped with our sausage gravy_ ) did little to unravel the mystery. He could not help but imagine one small, sad digestive slowly dissolving in a puddle of thin brown gravy.

Across the table, Catherine rolled her eyes at him.

"Dad-"

"I'm just trying to imagine why one earth someone would put gravy on a biscuit. That's truly appalling."

He grinned when Louis took the bait.

"Grandad," the lad told him earnestly. "It's not that kind of biscuit."

"Is it a chocolate biscuit?" Harry asked in a deeply sincere tone of voice.

Gabe laughed, and Harry's heart sang. He could think of nothing more delightful, truly, than this moment, sitting here smiling with his daughter and his grandchildren, his heart light and at peace. Unless, of course, Ruth and Emma were to join them; that would have made his joy most complete.

"It's like a roll, dad," Catherine told him.

Pouring gravy on a roll was hardly more appealing than pouring gravy on biscuits, to Harry's mind. He was no closer to understanding just what exactly it was they were trying to serve him.

"It's suddenly very clear to me that this country was founded by criminals expelled from England," he grumbled.

"Dad-"

"Really?" Louis asked eagerly, his eyes alight with a mischievous sort of curiosity; no doubt the thought appealed to that rebellious streak that seemed to exist inside all little boys.

"Not entirely," Catherine said wryly. "Now, Gabe, what do you want to do for your birthday?"

And so it went. Harry enjoyed a very fine bagel with lox, and the boys ate their weight in chocolate chip pancakes, and in the end it was decided that after breakfast they would adjourn to the house, to go swimming with Ruth and Emma. To Harry's very great delight it was the boys who suggested they invite their neighbors round; apparently they genuinely enjoyed playing with Emma, and Harry was spared the indignity of making that request of his daughter after their uncomfortably frank conversation earlier in the morning. Harry was exhausted, in truth, having not gotten a good night's sleep since his arrival, but the thought of seeing Ruth again - and a good cup of coffee - revived him. They would spend the day together, much as they had done on Monday, and he was quite looking forward to it.

* * *

It was an accident. A totally innocent mistake that Ruth found she regretted not in the least. Cate had rung her, when they returned from breakfast, and asked if she would come round, and of course Ruth had agreed at once, and Emma had been delighted by the prospect of a few hours spent splashing in the pool beneath the already boiling morning sun. Ruth had dressed them both and dutifully tramped across the grass, where she had met a somewhat frazzled Cate. To help with the morning's preparations Ruth had gone off to the loo, where she knew there was a small closet containing the heavy towels Cate intended to use when their time in the pool was done. The problem was that the moment she opened the door she found herself face-to-face with Harry, dressed only in his swimming trunks and in the very act of flushing the toilet.

"Oh!" Ruth nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him, and on reflex closed the door behind her before she took in the state of him, deeply worried that she might have caught him with his trousers down. Mercifully he was fully covered, and smiling at her softly, fondly, in a way that brought to mind everything that had passed between them the night before, and set her stomach to fluttering in nervous anticipation.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said, calm and charming and handsome as ever.

For her part, Ruth was having difficulty forming words. She had been trying, all morning, to smother the bright, satisfied grin that threatened to burst forth from her lips at any moment, to banish her anxious thoughts about the future, to dispel the memories of Harry's hands and lips against her body, to focus on the moment and not the tenderness between her thighs or buzzing sensation of her nerves still tingling from his touch. And now here he was, catching her quite off-guard with his broad shoulders and his barrel chest, the line of his trunks drawing her attention to his strong thighs, bringing to mind the memory of kneeling between them, her hands on his skin, and every delicious moment that had come after.

"Good morning, Harry," she stammered in response, her cheeks reddening at the knowing look in his eyes. _Damn him,_ but he could read her like a book, had taken a single glance at her and recognized at once precisely where her thoughts had gone, and, based on his expression, taken great pride in unraveling her so. Without thought she took a step back, coming to a rest against the closed door, and his brow furrowed, some of his pleasure at seeing her fading in the face of her reticence.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Ruth," he told her softly.

"I'm not afraid," she answered him truthfully. "It's just..." she cast about, trying to find some way to explain her sudden discomfort. "We haven't done anything wrong, have we?"

She had not realized just how much that question had been bothering her until she gave it voice. After his departure she had been caught somewhere between delirious happiness and crippling uncertainty. It had been lovely, truly lovely, to be held by him again, to know that he loved her, still, but the doubt had lingered. A quick tryst on the sofa and Harry sneaking off before sunrise; it all felt rather clandestine. Improper, somehow. She was glad they had done it, deeply grateful to him for coming to her, for holding her, for giving her his reassurances, but her analytical mind refused to allow her peace, twisting and turning as she grappled with the possible consequences.

"Of course not," he said at once. He was leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest, but the room was rather small, and he was alarmingly close.

"Then why do I feel so guilty?" she asked in a small voice. _I am happy,_ she thought, _I am. But, guilty, just the same._ "I hate this sneaking about, Harry. I'm not a spy any more."

Yes, she thought, perhaps that was the crux of it. She did not like hiding from Cate, from the children, from her own unpredictable heart. The last few days had been tumultuous, and she felt at times rather as if she were two different people, with two different lives swung quite suddenly into a cataclysmic convergence.

"It's only for one more day," he told her gently. "We'll tell Emma tomorrow, and then we'll tell the boys, and then-"

"And then what, Harry? Won't they think it's strange if we start-"

"Snogging in the corridors?" he supplied, unhelpfully.

"Harry," she sighed, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair. Suddenly things seemed so much more complicated than they had just a few minutes before. They were going to tell the children, that was settled, but she could not see what would happen next. Would he hold her hand, kiss her cheek, bestow upon her the gentle affection she recalled from their previous life in full view of the confused little ones? How would they explain this?

"We'll worry about that later," he said, his eyes darkening in a way she recognized, a way that called to her, sent a flood of heat washing through her belly. "We won't be snogging in the corridors-"

He took one step towards her, and then another, and her heart began to race.

"Harry," she gasped out his name in a warning tone.

"Yet," he finished, with some relish, and before she could think, before she could speak, before she could move, his lips were upon hers, and she was lost. She threw her arms around his neck, opened her lips to his questing tongue, felt his hands settle on her hips over her soft dress while his bulk pressed her back against the door. He was all fire and passion and _Harry,_ burning all of her concerns to ashes beneath the blaze of their desire for one another. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and she whimpered and his tongue brushed away the sting of it, his hand curled around her thigh and she was helpless to stop it, now, for in truth having had a taste of him she was ravenous for more. Her leg hooked round his hip, his hand ghosted over the swell of her bum, she surged towards him -

And in the distance the kitchen door opened with a bang, and they sprung apart like startled rabbits, gasping for breath.

"Ruth-" he started to say, but they were immediately interrupted by the sudden push of the door against Ruth's back. She leapt aside, and the next thing she knew little Gabe was rushing in, hopping from one foot to the other in a manner Ruth recognized at once.

"I gotta potty," he said.

"Of course," Harry answered, reaching out to tousle his hair. "We were-"

"Just getting the towels," Ruth finished for him, saving him from further discomfort. Gabe, it seemed, did not care at all what they were doing as he was already getting on with his business, and so Ruth pushed Harry out the door and grabbed a few of the towels before making her own hasty escape.

It was a close call; too close, for her liking. Gabe might have been young enough to find nothing odd about his grandad and his neighbor skulking about in the loo, but if it had been one of the older children, or, god forbid, Cate...it didn't bear thinking about. Cate would have taken one look at them, Ruth's swollen lips and Harry's tousled hair and their gasping breaths, and known exactly what they were up to. They would have to be more careful, but therein lay the crux of Ruth's problem, for she did not want to be _careful._ Not any more. She wanted to be honest, and open with her affections, wanted to find some way to bring the two halves of her life together into one. She just could not see _how._

* * *

Upon their flight from the loo Harry had taken first turn in the pool with the children, leaving Ruth and Cate sitting together on little chairs off to the side, drinking lemonade and looking on fondly. Well, Ruth's expression was fond; beside her, Cate seemed rather despondent, alternating between yawns and sighs with such alarming frequency that at last Ruth was forced out of a feeling of friendly compassion to ask just what was bothering her.

"Didn't get much sleep," Cate told her with a shrug. That might have been true, but Ruth could see it wasn't the only thing bothering her.

"Cate-"

"I know what happened, last night," she said suddenly, and Ruth's heart dropped like a stone in her chest.

"Oh, god, Cate-"

"It's fine," Cate said, waving away Ruth's contrition with one casual hand. "Really. I know...I remember the way you used to talk about him. And I talked to him this morning. I know you care about one another, and I am happy for you. I know you missed him terribly."

"I did," Ruth confessed in a small voice. It was true; she and Cate had bonded when they first met over their shared state of widowhood. Of course, Harry wasn't actually dead, but given the circumstances Ruth felt he might as well have been, and it was an easier explanation than the truth. They had talked about their men, happy memories and sad ones - though Ruth had been deliberately vague, in parts, of necessity. The grief, the loneliness that so alienated them from their happily partnered neighbors had served to draw the two of them together, survivors of the same battle, their hearts bearing the same scars. Cate had been a blessing to Ruth, a friend she could speak to honestly about the state of her heart, a friend she could listen to with empathy and compassion. But now…

"And I know it sounds strange to say it, but I just can't help but feel a little...jealous. Not because he's my father," Cate added quickly, to Ruth's immense relief, "but because...you've got your Harry back. I see the way you look at each other, you can't stop smiling. You're so happy. But Fabian...Fabian's never coming home."

There were tears standing in the corners of Cate's eyes, and as her words struck home Ruth felt an answering wave of emotion overtake her. Before this moment she had not even considered that, how it might wound Cate to know that she was once more alone with her grief. On impulse Ruth reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm, trying to offer what scant comfort she could.

"Oh, Cate," she said softly. "I'm so sorry." And she was truly sorry, not for having fallen into Harry's arms, but for the blatant joy of their reunion, and the inevitable pain it had caused her dearest friend.

"And dad's so _different_ , with you and Emma. He was never cruel, when I was little, but it was almost like he was never really there, with us. He never seemed to be happy, when he was with mum. Now, he's kind and he's funny and he'll do anything for the kids and I…" her voice trailed off and she looked away, hurt and lost.

"He wanted to be like that, with you and your brother," Ruth told her earnestly. It was strange, to think that she might have some insight into Harry that Cate did not possess, but she knew him, heart and soul, knew the man that he was, had spoken to him some of his children and his failings, and she felt a terrible urge to explain to Cate just why he seemed so different now. "I just don't think he knew how, then. Things haven't been easy for him, Cate-" beside her Catherine's eyes flashed but she barrelled on, determined to set the record straight. "He knows he could have been a better father. A better man. And he's trying, now. That's why he's here. He didn't come for me, Cate. He came all this way to be with you and the boys, because he's _trying."_

Cate scrubbed at her cheeks, clearly trying not to cry. Their voices did not carry to where their children were splashing happily with Harry, but still, it did not seem to be a risk she was willing to take.

"I know," she said, her voice trembling just a little. "And I know it isn't fair, to be jealous of what you have. It's just...for so long, I didn't have a father. And now my boys don't have one, either. But you and Emma…"

"You still have Harry," Ruth told her firmly. "He's here, and he loves you, and the boys, and he'll do anything for you."

"Will he stay?"

It was the plaintive tone of her voice that tore at Ruth's heart the most. Ruth looked away, unable to face the burden of her friend's grief, and her gaze fell on Harry, striding through the shallow pool with Emma and Gabe hanging off him, playing some sort of game she could not fathom. Even from this distance she could see the scars on his broad back, the sunlight turning his hair a glinting shade of grey. He had seen so much, endured so much, so much pain, so much loss, so many mistakes, so many trials. Would he go back to his life when the week was through, or would he stay, here in the blistering heat, here in this place where Ruth and Cate had made a home? Could she ask such a thing of him? Did she have any other choice?

She could feel the weight of Cate's gaze upon her; likely Cate suspected that Harry and Ruth had discussed their plans for the future more in depth. Perhaps she hoped Ruth had some insight to share, some reassurance to give, but in truth she had none.

"I don't know," she said sadly. "And I don't know what will happen if he does. But we won't abandon you, Cate. I promise."

They did not speak again for quite some time, both of them grappling with questions that seemed to have no answers.


	16. Chapter 16

After the pool, and lunch, and more time in the pool, and a failed attempt at naptime, Catherine found herself sitting at the kitchen table watching Harry and Rachel - Ruth - attempting to put together a little birthday supper while Louis and Emma lounged in front of the telly and Gabe lay sprawled in his mother's arms, insisting he wasn't tired and yet incapable of keeping his eyes open. Catherine didn't mind, so very much; her sons grew bigger every day, and she knew that soon the time would come when they would be too big to snuggle on their mother's lap, when they would longer want to. Gabe was heavy against her, but his soft blonde hair smelled faintly of soap from the bath she'd insisted on giving him, and the picture he painted, sucking his thumb and clinging to her, was too sweet for her to resist. She held him a little closer as her eyes drifted towards the other side of the kitchen.

They weren't speaking much, Harry and Ruth. For two people who'd carried on a torrid love affair that had resulted in a faked death and an unexpected child they made no grand show of their affection for one another. At the sink they stood side-by-side; Ruth was peeling potatoes to mash and Harry was preparing the shrimp. They'd had a good-natured argument about that, when the work had begun; _they're bloody prawns,_ Harry had grumbled, and Ruth had smiled and told him that _well, actually, shrimp are smaller, and they live in saltwater. Prawns are larger, and they live in freshwater. So really, they are shrimp, Harry._ And Harry had grumbled some more and brushed his shoulder against hers as he reached for a bowl, and Ruth had smiled, and Catherine had watched it all, suddenly fascinated by their every interaction. She was trying, very hard, not to let her own sorrow cloud her judgement, to find some way to be happy for them, these two people who were so very important to her.

All her life Catherine had been curious about people, the ties between them, the love that bound them together or the hatred that kept them apart. She wanted, very much, for her father to continue to play a role in her sons' lives, in _her_ life, and she knew that Ruth wanted Emma to be close to her father, as well. The extent to which Harry would be involved in this little family was not yet clear to Catherine, and it seemed to her that it hinged, rather crucially, on the depth of his regard for Ruth, the strength of his relationship with her, the desire he felt to stay with her set against the duty he felt to return to home. He had chosen duty over family, in the past, but he was older now, and Ruth was nothing like Catherine's own mother. And it seemed that Harry's relationship with her was nothing like his connection to Jane; even in this quiet, domestic moment, Catherine could note the change in him. He was gentler, somehow, his smiles more frequent, and he seemed so closely attuned to Ruth, to her thoughts, her needs, as if they shared one mind.

As Catherine watched, Ruth murmurred to him softly. "Harry, could you," she began, not finishing her sentence but instead gesturing vaguely off to the side. Without further prompting he reached unerringly for the dishrag hanging on a hook by his hip, and when Ruth accepted it with her left hand she gently squeezed his arm with her right by way of thanks. In silence the seconds ticked by, and then Harry was moving again. "Pardon me," he told her, his hand settling on the small of her back as he reached to open the cabinet in front of them, retrieving another little bowl as the first had already filled up. As he settled back into place Ruth lifted her face to smile at him, and he brushed a kiss against her cheek, and they went back to work, still in silence.

They seemed so very comfortable with one another, as their little dance continued by the sink. How many times, Catherine wondered as she watched them in a lethargic sort of bemusement, had they done just this, stood together in a sunlit kitchen in the early evening and prepared a meal, side-by-side? How many chances had they been given for this easy sort of normalcy when their lives in London had been so chaotic, so filled with fear and incessant, furious activity? Surely they had to have stolen some time together, to be so adept at maneuvering around one another, so at peace with the most boring of tasks. It was a cheerful thought, and a gentle one.

Little footsteps sounded from the doorway, and Catherine turned her head to see Emma padding into the kitchen, and a rush of affection overcame her at the sight of the child. She was a sweet little thing, was Emma, not overly boisterous but playful and happy, full of questions and tender-hearted. The boys adored her, and Catherine did, too; Catherine had no daughter of her own, and loved her boys more than her own life, but it was nice, having a little girl about. Even if that girl happened to be Catherine's own sister.

"Mumma?" Emma said as she crossed to the sink. Ruth smiled down at her daughter, and Catherine noticed once again how blue were their eyes, each the same brilliant shade, and she noticed, too, how Harry looked at the pair of them, his own gaze soft and warm, giving evidence to his quiet love of them both. Perhaps, Catherine told herself, he might love them enough to stay in this place, to join their little family. It was a nice thought.

"Can I help?" Emma asked. "Louis is asleep and I'm bored."

"Of course you can, love," Ruth told her. "Potatoes or shrimp?"

" _Prawns,"_ Harry muttered, but the corners of his mouth were lifted in the ghost of a smile, and though she was facing her child Ruth leaned back against him, chiding him with the brush of her back against his arm.

"Potatoes," Emma said decisively. "Shrimp are gross. Sorry, Mister Harry."

Harry just smiled at her, and went to drag one of the chairs over to the sink so Emma could stand beside her mother while they worked. _Mister Harry,_ she'd called him, and Catherine couldn't help but wonder how he felt about that. They would have to tell her the truth soon enough, but they hadn't yet, and for now they all seemed to linger in a state of graceful stasis, trying to grow accustomed to one another before everything changed. There was no telling how little Emma would take it, how the boys would take it, how the next few days might decide the course of all of their lives. But for the moment Catherine was happy, tired but content in the knowledge that her little family was safe, and together. Yes, she missed her husband, missed him fiercely, hated that he was not here with her, that she could not talk to him about everything that had transpired, but Harry was here, and whatever came next they would sort it out, all of them, together.

* * *

Somehow Ruth was not surprised when she came downstairs to find Harry loitering in her sitting room. The day had gone splendidly; the children had played together, and Harry and Ruth and Catherine had enjoyed one another's company, and they had eaten a little meal comprised of all of Gabe's favorite foods, and Ruth had once more carried Emma home, already falling asleep in her mother's arms. That was not so unusual, as they had spent most every day of the summer all of them together, and Emma had not once complained about sharing her time with the family next door. Having put her daughter to bed it had been in Ruth's mind to go into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine before having an early night, but he had been waiting for her, there at the foot of the stairs, and she smiled when she saw him.

Ruth could not recall when last she'd been this happy. She could feel the memory of Harry's touch on every inch of her skin, could feel the warmth of his smile upon her face, carried within her heart a small seed of hope that had been cultivated over the course of this day when he had been so kind, so present, so utterly focused on his family save for one brief phone call to the HS just after lunchtime. Of course, he had not divulged the nature of that phone call to Ruth; she had neither asked for nor expected such confidence, not now. It was as if they existed in another world entirely, completely cut off from the horror and the darkness of the lives they'd led in London, and Ruth did not have the security clearance or the emotional wherewithal to allow herself to be dragged back into the tumult of the grid. And Harry, it seemed, was in no rush to be drawn back in; though in the past she knew his brief holidays had been rife with distraction and constant phone calls he had so far been nothing but present and engaged with his family.

And now he was here, standing at the foot of the stairs in his crisp white shirt and casual trousers, his hair softly curling around the nape of his neck and his eyes warm and focused entirely on her. As she reached the last step he held out his hand to her.

"Dance with me, Ruth," he said softly.

She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to him, his lips brushing against the corner of her mouth.

"There's no music," she answered him. She kissed him once, softly, sweetly, because she could, because she loved him, and then she slipped out of his grip. It only took a moment for her to locate the little stereo in the corner, and then the room was full of the soft sounds of an orchestra, and Harry's hand was ghosting over her back, across the swell of her hip, drawing her effortlessly into his embrace.

Ruth moved with him without hesitation, one arm sliding round his back while her free hand caught his, their fingers twining together, his hand coming to a rest just above the curve of her bum, pulling her still closer. He smelled like sun and sandalwood, and she tilted her head back to gaze into his face, to see the love he felt for her etched in every familiar line and wrinkle. They swayed together, softly, slowly, their bodies touching from chest to hip. Her feet followed his, her natural clumsiness somehow irrelevant as she let him guide her, let him shower her with this tender intimacy. They had done this before, a time or two, in the sitting room of his house, in the kitchen at hers, but she had never felt quite as blissfully content as she did in this moment.

"I spoke to the Home Secretary today," he told her as they continued to sway, their faces so close together she could feel the warm wash of his breath upon her cheek.

"I know," she murmured in response. It was as if his words had pricked the tiny bubble of happiness that had buoyed her heart all day, as if she could feel herself deflating in his arms, but then he spoke again, and bolstered her weary soul.

"Ruth Evershed is officially alive and well and exonerated of all wrongdoing," he said.

Ruth looked up at him so sharply she almost cracked her head against his chin.

"If you like, he can have the documents sent to the embassy in Washington, and you can have Emma's paperwork cleared up. You can be Ruth Evershed again, if you want to be."

A million questions burst into her mind and she lowered her face from his searching gaze, resting her head against Harry's collarbone as she tried to find her way through the mess. For years she had longed for nothing so much as to hear her own name spoken aloud, and Harry had given her this chance. It seemed to carry with it a great risk, however; if she were to become Ruth once more, she could no longer be Rachel. She would lose her job, maybe even her home, might even be forced to leave this place altogether. What would become of her then? But if she chose to continue living life as Rachel, how could she manage it, now that Harry had come to back to her, now that Catherine knew the truth? Could she be Ruth at home, and Rachel out in the world, and keep everything straight?

"If you want to be Ruth again, Towers has agreed to speak to the university. You could keep your job, and your house, and the Americans have agreed to help us move everything into your proper name."

 _How does he do that?_ She wondered wryly. _He always seems to know exactly what I'm thinking, before I say a word._

It was a precious gift, this thing he offered her. This chance to have it all, her name and her home and the life that she had built, without fear, without lies. Or, without so many lies, at least, for she knew it would take some doing to explain the change in her status to her friends and neighbors. But they would grow accustomed to it in time, she supposed, and then she could go on being Ruth.

Still they danced, as she pondered this problem. Which was the easiest path, which was the right one, were they the same? Some people would look at her differently, she knew, once they discovered she was a bit more interesting than they'd ever previously imagined. Ruth loathed making waves, causing a fuss, but the thought of using one name at home and another out in the world was distasteful. Nothing in her life was ever simple, it seemed.

"What are you thinking, Ruth?" he asked her softly.

In truth she was thinking many things. She was thinking about the head of her department, and what he might say after receiving a phone call from the British Home Secretary and finding out that Rachel was not who she said she was. She was thinking about Cate, and what name she would rather her friend call her. She was thinking about Emma, and which option would be least confusing to her. She was thinking about trips to London, and what name should go on her passport, and Emma's birth certificate, and would they only take a trip or should they move back home, permanently? This last Ruth rather felt she already had the answer to. London wasn't home, any more. Home was this place, this sweltering heat, tea served sweet and ice cold in a glass, Cate just next door, Harry in her arms. The little house in London with the stained glass set in the door wasn't hers, any more. This place, these walls that had witnessed Emma's laughter and her tears, that had sheltered her as she grew, this place was _hers_ now, undeniably, and she did not want to leave it.

"I don't think I want to move back to London, Harry," she told him finally. It was hard to say it, to force the words out, to make such a demand of him. For in those words she had leveled a challenge, she knew. If she would not leave this place, then it would be up to Harry to determine what it was he wanted, to decide if he would leave her or stay here forever, and she knew that decision would not be an easy one for him to make. It was a difficult thing, to place upon his shoulders the burden of deciding what was more important to him, his duty or his family.

"I'm glad you said that," he told her as still they swayed together. Ruth's heart began to pound in her chest, wondering at the implication of his words.

"Catherine is settled here, and you seem to be as well, and I would hate to uproot you, and leave Catherine behind."

Ruth breathed a small sigh of relief, for in truth she agreed with him. Ruth's friends in London all thought she was dead, had all spent seven years living without her already, but she had grown quite close to Cate, and she desperately did not want to lose the comfort of their friendship, the joy of watching their children play together. She was glad that Harry understood her decision, that he supported her, even as she began to wonder what this might mean for them, which path Harry might choose.

"It's strange," he mused softly, his eyes distant as he pondered his own words. "But I find myself thinking less and less of work. It's been decades since I last went so long without working. I always felt in the past that everything might fall apart if I wasn't there. But I've discovered something, these last few days."

Ruth's mouth had gone dry, and she could not find the words to speak, could only nestle closer to him and listen with all her heart.

"The world didn't end just because I wasn't there. I'm not going to live forever," he added, and she held him that little bit tighter, and in her arms he smiled. "One day, whether I want them to or not, they're going to have to learn to get along without me. Why not now?"

"What are you saying, Harry?" she asked, her voice a trembling whisper.

Carefully he untangled their hands, let her wrap both her arms around him while he reached up and cradled her cheek in his palm.

"I'm saying that maybe they don't need me on the grid, any more. Maybe I could be of more use somewhere else. I am suddenly finding the prospect of retirement more appealing than ever before."

To her horror she felt the sting of tears in the corners of her eyes. It was too much; he had only been back in her life a bare few days, but already she had fallen in love with him all over again, had remembered what it was to rely on him, to turn to him when she was in need, to hold him in her arms, and though she had been loath to contemplate it lest the sting of the disappointment when he inevitably left grow too great for her to bear, she had longed for this, had yearned to hear him say the words he had just given her so gently. To have him here, with her, with their daughter - both his daughters - with Cate, with the boys, to come to home to him at the end of the day, to fall asleep beside him, to know that he was safe; it was a dream she had never thought could ever come to pass. And yet here he was, tentatively offering all of himself into her fearful hands.

"Harry," she breathed, his thumb brushing gently across the rise of her cheek. "Are you-"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life. We can sort it out, Ruth. I'm not suggesting we decide everything right this moment. But I want to be here, with my girls. I want to hold you," his arm slung low across her back pulled her still closer to him, "I want to kiss you," his lips brushed against the corner of her mouth, "I want to spend time with Emma. I want to be here."

One tear escaped her, and then another, but she could not find the words, and so she only tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his in a fierce and hungry kiss. Though her mind was full of questions she let her heart lead her in that moment, and in that moment all she wanted was Harry. Harry, warm, and real, holding her close, Harry's lips against her lips, Harry's tongue against her tongue, Harry's heart whispering to hers in a voice too quiet for her to hear. Tomorrow they could fret and ask their questions and make their plans; tonight she only wanted to love him, to be loved by him, to feel, however briefly, as if everything was going to be all right. And so as their kiss grew ever more passionate she did not push him away. She only caught his hand in hers, and led him up the stairs to her bedroom.


	17. Chapter 17

_Christ,_ but he would never get used to how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect she was, how completely, how utterly she owned him. Her soft thigh caught in the cage of his fingers, the salty tang of her neck beneath his tongue, her breathy moans, her quiet, desperate whimpers, her short nails scraping lightly over his scalp; all of her, every piece of this moment was excruciating in its beauty. They moved together, point and counterpoint, dancing as effortlessly in this place as they had done in the sitting room downstairs. The bed was soft and yielding beneath his dodgy knee, her body hot and wet and tight and yet welcoming his every thrust. He drove forward and she arched up, sliding together, deeper, stronger. Her breasts brushed tantalizingly against the plane of his chest, her eyes closed in bliss, her left hand curled tight around the muscles of his forearm while her right cradled his head against her skin. He was not as lean or as graceful as he had been in his youth but this he could do, could slowly build her up, higher and higher, could show her just how much he needed her, craved her, longed for her, how beautiful they could be together. She was an angel, his Ruth, her skin tanned and warm from the sun, every line on her face beautiful and dear to him.

With his left hand still wrapped around her thigh and his right hand planted by her head he covered her, sheltered her beneath his own bulk, and she engulfed him, one of her legs wrapped around his hip, her ankle drumming against his flank as she pulled him in, closer, harder, deeper. She was transcendent, magnificent, utterly glorious in that moment. Prudence dictated that they keep their voices low so as not to wake their sleeping child, and so Harry tempered the ferocity of his desire and instead set a determined, agonizing pace, slowing when he felt her trembling, forcing her to linger there on the peak of bliss, knowing that the longer he held off the more delicious the reward would be. She rocked beneath him, head cast back on the pillows as she lost herself in sensation, and still he pressed against her, ground against her tender heat as he buried himself inside her again, and again, and again. All he could sense was her, the sound of her, the heat of her, the earthy scent of her hair, the vision of her body naked and glistening beneath his own. He drowned in her, suffocating beneath the waves of his desire for her.

And then, oh then her soft heat clenched tight around his cock and she bucked up against him, hard, the movements of her body stuttering as some quiet, pleading sound left her lips, and he pushed into her release relentlessly, chasing after his own satisfaction until her lips pressed against his inner arm to muffle the sound of her cries and his own mouth latched onto her shoulder. She pulsed and shattered around him, and he spilled himself inside her, deliriously happy and utterly spent.

When at last he could hold himself upright no more he dropped to his belly beside her, his nose buried in her hair and his arm slung out across her heaving chest. Her fingertips traced patterns against his skin while she slowly calmed.

"Sleep, Harry," she whispered. He knew he shouldn't, knew he should leave, but his bones were weary and his eyelids were heavy and she was so completely wonderful. "I'll wake you when it's time to leave," she promised him. "Sleep now."

And so he did.

* * *

Despite all her best intentions, Ruth was powerless to resist the call of sleep, not now when her body was soft and sated, when Harry's arm draped warm and comforting around her, when she could feel the solid heat of him at her back, when she could still hear his voice whispering to her softly, telling her of his dreams, his wants, his quiet, yearning love of her. She had not slept properly, these last few nights, and she knew that Harry hadn't either, and though it might be a grave mistake she could not regret bringing him here, to her bed, letting him fall asleep beside her. There was peace in this moment, in simply being together, unafraid and warm in their love of one another. She closed her eyes, and slipped slowly beneath the waves of her exhaustion until at last she was utterly lost to the world.

So deep, so complete was her slumber that she did not immediately wake when, hours later, the sunlight began to stream through her bedroom curtains. She did not so much as twitch when her bedroom door opened, when little feet padded across the carpet to her bedside. Ruth's eyelids did flutter open, however, at the sound of her daughter's voice calling softly, " _Mumma?"_

It all came crashing in on her at once; Ruth started to sit upright, and then at the last second she - mercifully - remembered her current state of nakedness and remained lying on her stomach with her body still pressed firm to the mattress. Harry's arm was still draped across her back, and she could feel the gentle insistence of his semi-hard cock at her hip, the weight of one of his legs cast over her own, could feel the wash of his breath across her bare shoulder. And there in front of her stood Emma, blonde curls all in a tangle, dragging her favorite soft pink blanket behind her, her blue eyes wide and somewhat scared as she looked at her mother now.

 _God forgive me,_ Ruth thought bleakly. Though she had been wondering, for some time now, how it might go when she finally told her the daughter truth of Harry's connection to them she had never, even for a moment, considered it might happen like this, that Emma might come to her in the morning and find Harry sleeping, naked, in her bed. It was a sight she had wanted to spare her daughter, too much information revealed too quickly when Ruth's own brain was still foggy and uncertain. It was inappropriate, but more than that, it seemed to Ruth to represent in some ways a violation of trust; for the last seven years it had just been the two of them, Ruth and Emma, navigating the world together. There had been no man in their lives, certainly not in such intimate capacity; Emma had never had to share her space, or her mother, with any man at all, and Ruth had not taken any time to prepare her for this sudden intrusion. She could see the doubt, the confusion in her daughter's face, and she hated herself for it; Emma deserved better than this. In that moment every doubt, every fear, every question she harbored about the future assaulted her all at once, and she cursed her own foolishness in taking such a liberty with Harry and neglecting her responsibility to tend to her daughter's heart.

"Good morning, love," she said softly. She would have reached for her daughter's hand, but she feared that in so doing she would displace the blanket that covered her nakedness - and Harry's - and she wanted to spare them all that unpleasantness. Behind her Harry made a low, grumbling sort of sound as he slowly began to wake, and Ruth rushed to speak, to do her best to salvage what little dignity she could, to make the best of this situation.

"Have you brushed your teeth?" she asked.

Emma shook her head, wary and uncertain but still respectful of her mother, and Ruth smiled, half from fond affection for her daughter and half from sheer relief.

"Go brush your teeth, love," she said. "And then you can come back and we can talk, ok?"

"Ok, mumma," Emma answered, though her eyes were still wide and round and scared, bouncing from Harry to Ruth and back again. It was hard for Ruth to project an aura of calm reassurance when she knew that she was naked and tangled up with a man who was hardly more than a stranger to Emma, but she did her best for her child's sake. The moment the bedroom door closed behind Emma Ruth leapt to her feet, cursing and searching for her clothes.

"Ruth?" Harry asked in a gravelly voice, sounding as if he were still half asleep.

To her dismay, Ruth found her knickers and bra in a little pile by the side of the bed where Emma had been standing only a few moments before; _how could we have been so careless?_ She berated herself as she tugged them on.

"Get dressed," she barked.

Harry raised himself up on his elbows, blinking at her blearily, a muffled sound of shock escaping him as Ruth tossed him his shirt, and struck him square in the face with it.

"Emma found us," she said tersely. "We need to talk to her, and I need you to be dressed. Now."

That was all it took to galvanize him into action; he was on his feet in a moment, and if Ruth had not been so devastated, so terrified of the conversation that was to come she would have smiled at the sight of him, his broad chest, his cock bobbing as he moved. She could spare no time for fond thoughts of his body, however, not now when it seemed that indulging in her love of him might have brought her to the very brink of ruination.

They were both dressed and Ruth had just finished making the bed when Emma came back to them, still dragging her little blanket.

 _You can do this,_ Ruth told herself. _One thing at a time._

Ruth sat down on the edge of the bed and held her arms out to her daughter, and Harry took his cue from her, settling down heavily beside her. They had not spoken, while they furiously tried to make themselves presentable, had not formed a plan, but to her great relief it seemed that Harry was content to follow her lead. If he would only bite his tongue, and let Ruth do the talking, she thought that maybe, just maybe they would be all right.

Emma approached her, still looking terribly uncertain, terribly lost, but when Ruth gathered her into her arms some of the tension seemed to leave them both. Ruth leaned back against the pillows with her arms around her child, and Emma rested her head against her mother's shoulder, clutching her blanket close and staring at Harry all the while.

"Why is Mister Harry here?" Emma asked in a small voice.

* * *

Harry's heart was aching, as Emma asked her question. This was not at all the way he had intended for this conversation to go; it had been in his mind to hope that he and Ruth would have a chance to decide amongst themselves how to break the news to her, that they might do so slowly, might give her a chance to adjust to this new reality before shocking her too severely. It was too late for that now, he knew, now that she had seen them in such a compromising position. She was only six, but surely even she knew that it meant something important, when two grownups spent the night in the same bed.

"Well," Ruth said slowly, "Mister Harry and I have been friends for a very long time. We knew each other when we lived in London."

Emma was looking at him strangely; she had asked him, earlier in the week, if he had known her mumma, but he had not been able to answer her at the time. Was she surprised by this answer? Would she be upset, that he had not told her sooner? He did not know her well enough to say; so far she had seemed to him to be Ruth in perfect miniature, with her mother's keen intellect and wary nature, and he feared he had made a grave misstep with her already. Still, though, the sight of this child - his child - curled on her mother's lap was a sweet one. Their easy way with one another, their love of one another, soothed his doubtful heart. He began to hope that Ruth would be able to salvage this moment, to save them all from their circumstances.

"There's something I need to tell you, love," Ruth said.

Emma cast her head back to look at her mother, blue eyes meeting blue, and Harry watched them, his heart aching with love of them both.

"Do you remember what I told you, when you asked about your dad?"

Something inside Harry seemed to shatter at those words. Emma was so young, so very young, and he had never considered before this moment if she would have asked after her father. How had she discovered that a piece of her family was missing? How had it wounded her, to know that she had been denied such a vital piece of her life? Had it broken her little heart, to know that her friends had fathers who loved them, and she had none? There was so much he had missed, so many little moments, so much joy, and though he knew that he had been absent through no fault of his own it grieved him more than he could say, to think that he had caused her such pain.

Emma nodded in response to her mother's question, but did not speak.

"I said that your dad loves you very much, and that one day, if we were very lucky, he would come back to us."

Harry couldn't help but think that Ruth said those words for his benefit, that she wanted him to know that while she had told her friends and neighbors that her husband was dead she had not repeated that lie to Emma. Carefully he reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against Ruth's hip, the only place he could touch her without Emma seeing. He did not want to make a fuss, but in that moment he needed Ruth to know how grateful he was to her for keeping his memory alive, for giving their daughter cause to hope.

"Emma, Mister Harry is your dad. That's why he's here."

There it was; the truth was out, now. He held his breath while he watched Emma struggle with it, trying to piece it all together. Did she know, he wondered, what those words meant? Did she know how much he loved her, how much he loved her mother, that in this moment they had finally made their family whole? Should he speak, say something reassuring, or would the sound of his voice send her fleeing in fear?

"You're my dad?" Emma asked him after what seemed like an eternity. Though he hated to hear the trepidation in her tone, he was relieved that she had addressed the question to him directly, that while she might have been afraid that fear was not great enough to make her avoid him entirely.

"I am," Harry answered in a gentle voice, and though the air between them all was fraught with tension still his heart sang, to think that he could finally give voice to the truth. "And I love you, and your mother, very much."

Ruth's gaze found him then, tears in the corners of her eyes, and he shuffled a little bit closer to them, his beautiful girls. He did not wrap his arms around the pair of them, much as he longed to, for he did not want to overwhelm Emma in this moment. Everything was changing, the world shifting beneath their feet with each passing second, and he desperately wanted to get this right, not to pressure her or push her beyond the bounds of her own comfort.

"Oh," Emma said in a small voice. Ruth frowned and held her tighter, as if to protect her from the torrent of emotion that threatened to drown all three of them. Emma didn't seem pleased by this news, and that troubled Harry a great deal. He tried to tell himself to remain calm, to remember that he and Ruth had just shaken the very foundations of their child's life. To his mind it was a wonderful thing, to have their family all together, but it would mean many changes for Emma, and perhaps despite her tender age she could already sense those changes, and feared them. He did not want to be a cause for fear or distress for any of his children, but he knew that he had failed in that regard in the past, and he was desperately worried that he was about to do it again.

"Do I have to call you dad now? Are you going to stay with us? Are you not going to be Louis's granddad any more?"

So many questions; Harry almost laughed. Yes, she was her mother's child.

"You don't have to call me dad unless you want to," he told her. He had very nearly called her _sweetheart,_ the way he had done with Catherine when she was small, but he bit his tongue, fearing that such endearments would be a step too far. "I would like very much to stay." That was as much as he could say on the topic at present; he suspected it was too soon for him to insinuate himself into Ruth's home, that they would need more time before deciding to share their space permanently, but this conversation - and everything that had preceded it - only served to reinforced his determination to retire and spend the rest of his days with his family. "And I'm still Louis's granddad."

"But…" her little brow furrowed, as if she had been presented with a puzzle she couldn't quite work out.

"Mister Harry is Cate's dad, too, love," Ruth said carefully. "That means he's Louis and Gabe's granddad."

"But Cate's old," Emma protested.

Harry laughed; he couldn't help it. Likely Catherine would not approve of being referred to in such a way, but Emma was only a child, and she saw life through a child's eyes. Everyone must seem old, to one so small.

"I'm old, too," he said.

"If you're my dad, and you're her dad, does that mean mumma is Cate's mumma, too?" Emma looked to her mother in some confusion.

To her credit Ruth did not groan or sigh or otherwise show any distress at this question. Families, Harry knew, were often complicated beasts, and theirs more so than most. It was a reasonable question from a child who had not yet experienced just how complex those ties could be. He wondered, briefly, if Catherine would find it funny, that Emma could imagine Ruth was her mother, too.

"No," Ruth said, running a gentle hand over her daughter's hair. "Cate's mum is someone else. But you have the same dad, and that means Cate is your big sister."

To Harry's mind they were in some danger of being completely lost beneath the details, but the gravity of the moment lessened somewhat as little Emma processed everything that had been said. _We'll be all right,_ he told himself. _In time._

"I never had a big sister before," Emma said slowly.

 _You have a big brother, too,_ Harry thought, somewhat glumly, as the image of his son's face came to mind. He did not speak those words aloud, for with them would come entirely too many questions. In time, he told himself, they could reveal everything to Emma, but for now he felt they had covered enough ground. Emma had just gone from having no family whatsoever besides Ruth to having a father and a half-sister - and two nephews - and for now that seemed revelation enough.

"I never had a dad before," she added. Her face was sad, somewhat lost, as if she did not quite know what to do with this information, as if she could not fathom what was expected of her now. It tugged at Harry's heart, to see her looking so forlorn, but still she was nestled in her mother's embrace, with her father beside her, and he hoped that she might soon draw comfort from their proximity, might soon come to welcome his presence in her life, and not find him only a source of confusion.

"I know I haven't been with you," he said slowly, "but your mum is right. I have always loved you both, and I am so happy to be here now."

It was true; from the moment he learned of her existence, his heart had belonged to this little girl, and he wanted nothing more than to love her, to protect her, to see her grow up safe and happy. And he had loved Ruth, every moment of every day since she left him, and that love was only growing by the second as he soaked up the comfort of her nearness, the tenderness of her heart revealed in her every word and deed.

"Ok," Emma said.

They sat in silence for a moment, all three of them, Emma chewing on her lip and Ruth gently rubbing her daughter's back and Harry doing his best not to stare too intently at the pair of them. It was impossible to predict what might happen next, what Emma was feeling, but Ruth was leaning back against his arm, reassuring him in her own gentle way, and they were beautiful, his darling girls, and now the truth was revealed, and he would no longer have to pretend he did not love them both with everything he had. Yes, it was strange, and perhaps a bit uncomfortable, but it was necessary, too, and he hoped that they would all be better off because of it.

"All right, love?" Ruth asked finally.

Emma nodded, and Ruth smiled, and kissed her temple.

"Come on, then," she said. "Let's have some breakfast."

And so they did, all three of them, together.


	18. Chapter 18

"All right then, darling," Ruth said as she settled Emma at the table. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Pancakes, please," Emma replied in a subdued little voice. Since the rather startling revelation Ruth had made in her bedroom the little girl had been somewhat quiet, uncertain, and though Ruth hated to see her looking so glum, she forced herself to be grateful for small mercies, for the fact that Emma was not wailing or screaming or otherwise reacting in anger. With time, Ruth knew that Harry would win their daughter round, much the same way he had done with Ruth herself. He could be gentle, and patient, when he had cause to be, when he wanted to be, and it seemed that now was one of those time. He placed one broad hand on Ruth's shoulder, and smiled down at their little girl.

"Do you know, Emma," he said softly, "I'm quite good at making pancakes."

She looked up at him shyly, and the hand still resting on Ruth's shoulder gave her a gentle squeeze.

"It's true," Ruth added, her thoughts far away as she remembered how things had gone, in a different life, how she had sat at Harry's kitchen table wrapped in one of his shirts, sipping a cup of tea while he wandered around in just his trunks, making her pancakes. It had not happened often - they simply had not had the time - but he had done this thing for her, more than once, and it was a lovely memory. The thought of him doing the same for their daughter now - though he and Ruth were both mercifully dressed- warmed her heart.

 _We're going to be all right,_ she told herself.

"If you'll just show me where everything is, Ruth, I'll do this," Harry murmured in her ear.

She turned to look at him, his soft eyes warm and so very close, and she tried to take courage from the affection she saw there. He was trying his best, she knew, to make this work, to make Emma comfortable, to find a way forward for all of them together. The night before he had all but promised to abandon his life in London for the sake of their little family, a sacrifice she knew he'd never considered making for anyone before, not for Jane, not for Catherine and Graham. Already he had tried once, in the days after Cotterdam, to trade his life, his freedom for hers, and now he was once again preparing to give it all up for her sake. It should have pleased her, to see such evidence of his regard for her, but in truth it made her feel a bit guilt, as she wondered why he could do such a thing for her, and not for his family. Perhaps, she tried to tell herself, it was simply that this Harry, her Harry, was so much older than the one who had abandoned his first wife; having lost so much, he seemed loath to do it again.

 _But what happens if he stays?_ She wondered. In a trance she had shown Harry to the pantry and then pulled out the various accoutrements he'd need for the pancakes, but once that job was done he kissed her cheek and gave her a gentle nudge, encouraging her to go and sit down with Emma while he cooked.

Would he want to move in with them, then? She asked herself. Though it would be lovely, incredibly lovely, to have Harry close to hand Ruth wasn't sure she was ready for that kind of change. She had not had to share her living space with anyone save for Emma since her university days, and Harry was only so recently returned to her, and Emma was having a hard enough time as it was adjusting to this news. Ruth could not bear the thought of pushing too hard, and breaking this fragile peace they'd managed to find together.

"Mumma?"

Ruth gave her head a little shake as if to clear her thoughts, and turned to smile down at her daughter.

"Yes, love," she answered, reaching out to brush a wayward curl back from Emma's face.

"If Mister Harry is my dad how come he doesn't live here?"

Ruth drew in a sharp breath and instinctively cast her eyes across the kitchen to where Harry stood hard at work. It was clear he'd heard Emma's question; his expression was somewhat pained. He gave her a little nod, as if to tell her that it was all right, that he was ready for this conversation, and carried on with the pancakes while Ruth tried to find some way to explain the tangled mess of their lives to a six year old.

"Well," she said slowly, "Mister Harry has a very important job, back in London. When I decided to come here, he had to stay behind. It isn't what we wanted, but sometimes grown ups have to make hard choices like that."

"What kind of job?" Emma asked curiously, directing her question half to Ruth and half to Harry.

Ruth's heart sank. Though it was sometimes inevitable she always tried her very best not to lie to her child. How then could she navigate this particular line of inquiry?

"I work for the government," Harry piped up, saving her from her own tumultuous thoughts. And to his credit, he had not lied, either, and the fact that he had handled the moment so deftly gave Ruth some small piece of hope. His instinct, like hers, had been to tell as much truth as possible, and that like-minded approach boded well for their future together.

"But I will not do that for very much longer," he added quickly.

All at once Ruth's worries about the future came back. Yes, it was lovely, absolutely lovely, having him here, watching him talk to Emma, watching him make pancakes, knowing they were both relaxed and free from the troubles of their old life. But how long could such bliss be expected to last? Would he not, one day soon, grow tired of such a provincial life, without the excitement of the Grid to carry him through? Would he come to resent her, for taking him away from his life?

"Here we go," Harry said softly, crossing the kitchen to place a plate of pancakes in front of Emma.

"Thank you, Mister Harry," the little girl said politely before digging into her breakfast.

"You're most welcome," Harry responded, the word _darling_ hover in the air between them, though he had not spoken it aloud. Ruth had heard it just the same, could see from the look on his face how very much he adored their little girl.

 _One thing at a time,_ she reminded herself. _Don't go borrowing trouble._

"Yes, thank you, Mister Harry," she said softly, reaching out to catch his hand and give it a little squeeze. Harry was trying so hard, was so determined to do the right thing by his family, and despite her fears Ruth wanted to encourage him. The warm smile he gave her did much to soothe her anxious heart.

The peaceful moment was broken, however, by the sudden ringing of Ruth's mobile. She scooped it up at once, her brow furrowing as she saw who was calling.

"Cate?" she asked as she answered. "Everything all right?"

"Oh, I think so," was Cate's somewhat haggard answer. "Listen, I hate to ask you this. I don't want any details. A simple yes or no will do. But...is my father with you?"

Though Cate could not see her Ruth's cheeks flushed scarlet at the question. Everything had happened so quickly, from the moment she'd discovered Harry in the sitting room the night before, and she hadn't spared a moment to wonder if he'd told his daughter where he'd gone.

"Yes," she said simply, biting her tongue to keep from spilling out more information than Cate needed.

"Oh, thank God," her friend sighed in relief. "Will you tell him that next time I'd appreciate him letting me know when he plans to spend the night out? I was bloody terrified when I woke up, I had no idea where he'd gone and he left his mobile here."

 _Stupid man,_ Ruth thought ruefully. "I'll let him know," she agreed. "We'll be round in about an hour, if that's all right?"

"That's perfect," Cate agreed. And that was that.

* * *

"Are you ready?" Catherine asked, her gaze darting from her father to Ruth and back again.

As had become their habit, Ruth and Emma - with Harry in tow - had come traipsing across the garden just before 10:00, but rather uncharacteristically Ruth had shuffled the children off to the sitting room before telling Catherine the big news. It was awful, really, the way poor little Emma had found out, and Ruth seemed quite mortified even now. Cate could sympathize with her little sister; if she'd walked in on Harry and Ruth in bed together she'd be a bit out of sorts, as well, and she could not blame Emma for being so withdrawn now. It had always been their general plan to tell the boys once Emma knew, and now that the time had come, all three of them stood on the threshold of the sitting room, trying to marshal their thoughts.

It was the right thing to do, Cate knew. Her boys deserved to know the truth, and it would be too much to ask that Emma keep this secret to herself. Cate's own childhood had been full of secrets and lies and obfuscations, and she did not want that for the three little ones currently gathered in front of the telly. They deserved better than that, no matter how uncomfortable the next few minutes might prove to be.

"I don't think we have any other choice," Ruth said, somewhat sadly.

Cate could not help but notice how her father stood so very close to Ruth, how at her words his knuckles gently grazed the back of her hand, some silent communication passing between them. Though she did not want to think too long or too hard about how Harry had come to spend the night in Ruth's bed rather than in the guest room at Cate's house where he belonged, she could not deny the connection between the two people who stood alongside her now. They moved as one, united in their resolve, and the way they spoke to one another, looked at one another, leaned on one another gave evidence of the depth of their feelings. They were neither of them particularly demonstrative or given to discussing the truth of their hearts outright, but just watching them together Cate could see the truth written all over their faces. They _loved_ each other, and seven years apart had not been enough to weaken the bonds between them.

"Let's go, then," Cate said.

And so they did.

The three little ones were sprawled across the sofa, and as she entered the room Cate went first to turn off the telly. She wanted their undivided attention for this.

Gabe protested, but Cate across him at once.

"In a minute," she said. "There's something we need to talk to you about first."

Ruth sat down on the sofa next to Emma, and Cate took a seat next to Gabe. Harry looked around, perplexed for a moment as he no doubt wondered where on earth was the safest place for him to land; in the end he chose a nearby armchair.

 _How am I supposed to do this?_ Cate wondered. When she was first pregnant with Louis she'd read every book on the topic of childrearing she could get her hands on, and not one of them had contained anything to help her now; there had been no chapters entitled _how to tell your children that their granddad fathered the little girl next door._

Across the room her father shot her a reproachful look, as if he found the long silence unacceptable. He cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair, and as one the children turned their gazes upon his face.

"Boys," he said slowly, "I talked to Emma about this earlier today, and now I want to tell you. This may sound very strange, but…" he paused for a moment, clearly searching for the words. An awkward sort of tension filled the room, as the boys waited to hear what secret he had to tell them, as Ruth and Cate held their breath, each of them hoping he wouldn't cock it up.

"The thing is," he said. "Well...I'm Emma's dad."

"Oh," Gabe said in a small voice. Cate's arm tightened around his shoulders reflectively.

"But you don't even live here," Louis said, frowning as he tried to work it all out.

"Your granddad and I knew each other in London," Ruth explained softly from the other side of the room.

 _That's one way to put it,_ Cate thought darkly.

"Is that why you live next door, Miss Rachel?" Louis asked her. "Is that why Granddad came to stay? If he's Emma's dad does that mean you're married? What about Gran?"

So many questions; Harry looked rather aghast. There had been no tears or tantrums yet, however, and Cate clung to the hope that they would all survive the conversation relatively unscathed.

"I didn't know who your mum was when we met," Ruth said in a warm, comforting sort of voice. "And your granddad didn't know I was here; we were quite surprised to see each other. We're not married. People don't have to be married, to have a child together. And as for your Gran-"

"Your Gran and I have been divorced for a very long time," Harry interrupted, not unkindly. "Do you know what that means?"

"That means she married Grandpa Robin, and you...you and Miss Rachel…"

"Yes," he said, the tips of his ears turning red.

 _That's quite enough of that,_ Cate thought wryly.

"Your granddad loves you both very much," she told her sons. "But he loves Emma and Miss Rachel, too. They're part of our family, just like Gran and Grandpa Robin and Uncle Graham."

Cate did not miss the momentary flicker of agony in her father's eyes, at the mention of his brother's name. It had been years, she knew, since Graham and Harry had spoken civilly to one another, and though in the past she had been all too willing to believe the worst of her father she saw the pain that bitterness caused her father all too plainly. _Maybe one day,_ she thought as she absently stroked Gabe's hair, _we can sort that out as well._

"Does that mean you're going to stay with us, Granddad?" Louis asked hopefully.

The boys had enjoyed having him around, Cate knew. And given that he'd spent the last two nights with Ruth, it seemed that _she_ enjoyed having him around as well. It would be good for Emma to see more of her father, and selfishly Cate quite wanted to see more of him, too. Talking with him these past few days, laying to rest old grievances and forming a new, more affectionate connection had been a wonderful thing. But before this moment, nothing in his life had given him sufficient motivation to abandon his post. Would he do so now? Could he do for Ruth and Emma what he had never done for Cate and her mother?

"That's something I need to discuss with Miss Rachel," he said, having clearly taken note of the way Louis referred to Ruth. "But, I would like that, very much."

 _That's enough for now,_ Cate decided. Ruth looked pale and Harry looked terrified and the children were quiet, all piled together and trying to come to terms with the titanic shift in their circumstances. She did not want to overwhelm them with too much information all at once, and likewise she could tell by the worried glances Harry and Ruth were passing back and forth that they needed more time to speak privately before they'd be able to give any more concrete information about Harry's future plans. Cate could only hope they would do so soon; it was Thursday morning, and Harry had a flight booked for Sunday. They were rapidly running out of time.


	19. Chapter 19

Cate had, rather graciously, offered to take all three of the children to the park for the afternoon, to allow Harry and Ruth a bit of privacy following their tumultuous morning. And though they could have very easily gone walking across the garden and folded themselves together in Ruth's bed they remained in Cate's home, sitting together at her kitchen table and enjoying a cup of tea in the blessed quiet of a house that was - however briefly - devoid of the voices of children. With her right hand Ruth held a large red mug and with her left she traced idle patterns across the back of Harry's hand, following the veins that coursed beneath his skin, trailing up to the cuff of his white shirt and down again, over and over. His skin was soft and warm, a comforting reminder of the reality of their situation, and she drank in his proximity and the faint scent of his cologne, having been hastily applied after he snuck off to shave.

"Are you certain, Harry?" she asked him softly.

There was no need for further explanation; he knew where her thoughts had gone, knew what it was she was asking of him, and so he only smiled, and sipped his tea.

"My team are more than capable," he mused. "Ros Meyers has become a fine agent, and she has developed a good rapport with the Home Secretary. He respects her, the team respects her, and I think she'll do well in my chair."

Ruth stared at him, somewhat aghast; the Ros she remembered had been foul tempered, cruel, even, and focused on nothing save her own gain. It was Ros, after all, who had sold Ruth down the river to Mace. How then had this come to pass, she asked herself, that Harry had come to trust Ros so completely that he was now determined to hand over his command to her?

"I know it sounds strange, Ruth," he said, frowning as he read her thoughts in her face. "But Ros has come round. You might even like her, now."

"Well, if we're lucky, I'll never have to find out," Ruth answered, somewhat testily.

Harry sighed.

"I have been thinking about how best to do this," he told her softly. "I can't resign over the phone, and it will take some time for me to hand everything over to Ros."

Ruth straightened up slightly, anxious to hear what he had to say, what sort of plan he had come with to manage their future. They had always been rather good at this, Harry and Ruth, making plans, and having some tangible, concrete task to apply her mind to appealed to Ruth a great deal.

"What I'm thinking is this," he said, and thus it began. "I will go back to London on Sunday. I will go to the Home Secretary and formally resign on Monday. I will stay in London for a month, to arrange my affairs and sell my house. And then, I will come back here. Maybe I could stay with Catherine, or perhaps it might be best for me to rent a place of my own for a while. Then we can all get used to seeing more of one another. The last thing I want is to rush you into a decision you aren't ready to make."

Ruth wasn't sure whether to feel indignant at his somewhat patronizing treatment of her, or to be grateful for the momentary reprieve he offered her. Yes, she rather thought that it would be best if Harry didn't move in with her right away, and his suggesting it only confirmed for her just how deeply he cared for her, how willing he was to do whatever it took to make her comfortable, how well he understood her uncertain heart.

"Don't sell your house, Harry," she murmured.

The look that crossed his face then was vaguely panic-stricken, and she rushed to explain herself, laying her hand flat across his where it rested against the tabletop.

"Cate and I would love to take the children to London, to visit. We have so much time, in the summer, I think it would be wonderful if we had somewhere we could go, all of us together. And if Cate and the boys want to visit at Christmas, or any other holiday, it would be nice if they had a place of their own to stay; she's told me her mother's house doesn't really have room for all of them. If you think you could afford it-"

"Money is hardly an issue," Harry said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The house is paid for, and I could hire someone to keep it up while we're not there. It's a good plan, Ruth," he added approvingly.

For a moment Ruth lost herself in imagining it, in escaping the sweltering heat of this place for a few weeks each year to stroll along the familiar streets of London, to sit with Harry on a bench in a quiet park and watch their daughter playing, perhaps to visit some of her old friends - or perhaps not, given the circumstances. Always she had dreamt of introducing Emma to the beauty of her beloved London, and now that it seemed such a thing might be possible, her heart was singing in her chest.

"As for the rest of it, though," he said, somewhat delicately. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's wonderful, Harry," she told him, leaning over to give him a gentle kiss. Yes, it was wonderful. Harry would be safe, free from the darkness that had dogged his steps, and he would come to her, and love her, and all would be well. She could hope for nothing more.

"I never thought this day would come," Harry said after a moment. "I thought I'd lost you forever."

Ruth tightened her grip upon his hand, understanding all too well the pain that thought had caused him, for she had felt it searing her own heart.

"So did I," she answered.

"Were you frightened, when Emma was born?"

The question was borne of curiosity and genuine care, Ruth knew. Already she had told Harry the story of how she had discovered she was pregnant, had shown him the photos of Emma the day she was born, the day she came home from the hospital, tiny and pink and perfect, but she had skirted around the truth of just how devastating that period of her life had been, how lost and forlorn and lonely she was.

"I was terrified," she said, somewhat ruefully. "I didn't know the first thing about babies, and I was so far from home, and I was so worried about...oh, everything. I was worried that I wouldn't know how to take care of her, that I wouldn't be able to, that someone would come looking for me and I wouldn't be able to protect her. But I found my way, Harry. She's here, and she's perfect, and I wouldn't trade her for anything."

It was Harry's turn to smile at her softly, to lift her hand to his lips and press a gentle kiss against her skin.

"I never meant for you to go through this alone, Ruth."

"I know," she said. And she did know; one look at his face was enough to tell her that he would have done anything, anything, to find her, to help her, to keep their child safe, if only he had known. Now he knew, though. Now he had met Emma, and grown to love her, and now he was planning to make a life for the three of them together.

Without a second thought Ruth rose from her chair, and then settled herself upon Harry's lap, keeping her weight off his bad knee and wrapping her arms around his neck. Such casual, exuberant displays of affection were not in her nature but she longed, more than anything, to be close to him in this moment. Harry wrapped his arms around her, pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, and held her close.

"I love you, Ruth," he murmured. "I love you."

* * *

"Oh, dad, it's only one night," Catherine told him, somewhat exasperatedly, as she collapsed into the chair beside him.

It was another sweltering evening, despite the fact that darkness had fallen, and Harry was sitting on his daughter's porch, nursing a sweaty bottle of beer with his eyes glued to the little house next door. Ruth had asked that he leave her alone tonight, allow her the chance to spend time with Emma, to make sure their daughter wasn't entirely overwhelmed by all that she'd learned. It was the right thing to do, he knew, but he only had three nights left, and he hated to spend any of them away from Ruth.

"I'm just worried, Catherine," he confessed.

For a moment his daughter eyed him warily, her gaze bright and incisive, so reminiscent of her mother. Yes, Catherine had inherited all of Jane's suspicious nature, but she had her father's determination, and he loved for all that she was.

"About what?" she asked.

"Emma," he answered, somewhat uncomfortably. Catherine hadn't been exactly pleased, when she discovered what he'd done, that she had a little sister living in the house next door, and he still felt a bit strange discussing this with her. Still, though, he was determined to build a stronger, more lasting connection with her, and he knew that it would require some uncomfortable disclosures on his part.

"She's a good kid," Catherine told him. "She'll get used to it."

"What if she doesn't like me? She's never had a dad before, what if she doesn't want one now?"

"Stupid man," Catherine chided him, and he nearly laughed aloud, for Ruth had called him that before, more times than he could count. "Every little girl wants a father who loves her."

In the darkness Harry stared at her, this young woman who was his flesh and blood, and his heart ached as he remembered every time had ever hurt her in the past.

"You know I love you, don't you, sweetheart?" he said.

"Yeah, dad," she answered, refusing to look at him. "I know."

* * *

"It will be all right, darling, you'll see," Ruth whispered softly. She and Emma were lying in her big bed, both of them in their pajamas, sleep not far off. It had been quite some time since Emma had last spent the night in her mother's bed, but she seemed to crave the closeness now, and Ruth wanted to give that to her, wanted to hold her little girl, protect her from the frightening world beyond their door.

"What if he doesn't like me?" Emma asked in a timid little voice.

Ruth very nearly laughed aloud, for she knew that Harry had been asking himself that very same question. He was not particularly adept at handling children, had ruined his relationship with his own in the past, and she knew that he was terribly worried about mucking things up with Emma as well.

 _We all just need a little time,_ she thought. A little time to adjust to the change in their circumstances, to acquaint themselves with one another, to discover just what they could be, what the future might look like for all of them together.

"He already loves you, sweetheart," Ruth said firmly, running her hand over her daughter's soft blonde hair. "He's your dad, and he thinks you're wonderful, just as you are."

"But he didn't want us," Emma protested, and Ruth's heart sank like a stone in her chest. There had not been time, really, for her to consider how things must look to Emma's mind, how she might perceive their situation, what conclusions she might have drawn from the little bit of information they'd been able to give her. They had told her, Ruth and Harry, that Harry had chosen to stay in London for his work, and though Emma was very small and hardly able to understand the full ramifications of that decision, she had nonetheless come to the somewhat inevitable conclusion that Harry had let them go because he did not care enough to follow.

"Oh, my love," Ruth breathed. "It isn't like that at all. I know it's very hard to understand, but he was only doing what he had to do. Sometimes grown ups have to do things they don't want to because they must, because it's the right thing, because it will help someone else. Your dad wanted you, Emma. He wanted all of us to be together, but we couldn't."

"And now we can?"

The naked hope in her voice was almost enough to bring tears to Ruth's eyes.

"And now we can," she echoed firmly. "Now someone else will take over, and your dad can stay here with us, forever."

"Ok," Emma said.

And that was that. In just a few moments Emma drifted off to sleep while her mother hummed to her softly, her thoughts a whirl of plans and hopes and Harry.


	20. Chapter 20

Friday morning dawned grey and murky, the air hot and thick as soup, a cloud of malaise and mosquitoes seeming to hang perfectly motionless in the air beyond the windows of Catherine's little house. Harry's heart was heavy, as he shuffled off to the loo. He was rapidly running out of time, and he felt the ticking of the passing seconds in the steady beat of his heart, pounding out a rhythm of inevitable loss. He had this day, to enjoy his family. He had the following day to enjoy a birthday party for his youngest grandson, to put up with the boy's friends and Catherine's friends and remember that Ruth was Ruth no longer, but _Rachel_ in that place. And then it would be Sunday, and he would board a plane, and leave his family far behind.

Oh, the arrangements were already in motion and he knew he would not be long separated from his girls, from Catherine's boys. A month - two at the most - and he would be back in this place. _Is it still this hot in September?_ He'd asked Catherine as he stood sweating beside her on the porch the night before. _You'll find out soon enough,_ she'd answered, a tease and a challenge all at once.

 _September._ As he showered, shaved, slipped into his clothes for the day, his thoughts were awash with September. Catherine and Ruth back at work, the children back in school, and Harry would be on his way back here to them. What would it be like, he asked himself, to be retired at long last, to watch his family go out to live their lives while he stayed behind? Any amount of discomfort or boredom could be borne for the sake of the ones he loved, for the chance to spend more time with his daughters, but still, he knew it would likely be uncomfortable, for a while, as he tried to muddle his way through, to find a new path for himself, an occupation of some sort that did not revolve around death and terror. How would he pass the time? Would he need a legend? What would Ruth have to say about his living under a false name if it was decided that was the safest course of action?

With his head buzzing, full of all these disparate, somewhat morose thoughts, he shuffled off to the kitchen.

"Good morning, dad," Catherine called out to him. "Coffee?"

"God, yes," Harry groaned. He had adjusted, more or less, to the time difference, had managed to wrangle a good night's sleep at last, but all the stress he'd endured earlier in the week was rapidly catching up with him. His bones were weary, and he was thinking rather longingly of a nap. _You're getting too old for this,_ he thought glumly.

"Sleep all right?" Catherine asked him as she handed over the much-needed cup of coffee. He could hear the faint din of the telly coming from the sitting room where the boys were entertaining themselves for the moment. In the relative peace of the kitchen he took a long sip of coffee and tried to prepare himself for the day ahead.

"Tolerably," he answered his daughter's question. "You?"

"Fine," she told him, the pallor of her face giving evidence of the lie. Had thoughts of their strange new situation been keeping her awake, as well? He rather hoped not, for he longed to never again be a source of distress for his children in any way.

"What's on the agenda for today?" he asked. The more pertinent question - _when will I see Ruth again -_ remained unspoken.

Catherine sighed. "I've got to pick up the cake and things for the party. Everyone will be here at 11:00 tomorrow, and I'll need the morning to set it all up. Ruth has offered to watch the boys today so I don't have to take them with me."

It was strange, really, how just the sound of her name could make his heart soar. Ruth, whom he loved, whom he thought he would never see again, Ruth who had slept beside him only two nights past; it had only been such a little while, and he was still quite overwhelmed with the reality of having her so close to hand after so many years of thinking she was lost to him forever.

"Will you help her, with the kids? She's used to keeping up with all three of them by herself, but since you're here-"

"I'd be delighted," he told her honestly. There was nothing he would like better, in fact, that to spend long hours in Ruth's company, looking after the three little ones who had so completely stolen his heart, and already the prospect of this day seemed far more cheery than it had just a few minutes before.

Their conversation was interrupted then by the opening of the back door; he and Catherine turned together and watched as Emma came marching through, her mother not far behind. He smiled at her softly, that beautiful little girl with hair the color of her father's and eyes the color of her mother's, and as she caught sight of him her progress slowed, and she offered him a tentative smile of her own.

"Good morning, Mister Harry," she said in a bashful little voice.

"Good morning, Emma," he answered her warmly. He wanted to go to her, to pick her up, to hold her close and brush his hand over her soft blonde curls, but he held himself back for her sake, not wanting to press her into affections she was not yet prepared for. Ruth stood behind Emma, watching the scene unfold, her eyes echoing the same hope that had grown within Harry's own heart.

"The boys are in the sitting room," Catherine told her, and without further prodding Emma bounded away, off to play with her friends - her nephews.

"Good morning, Harry," Ruth murmured, and at the sound of her voice he took a step towards her, thinking only how lovely she was, how much he cared for her, how much he wanted to hold her. But then he recalled that Catherine was still present, and for her sake he restrained himself - but only just.

"Good morning, Ruth," he answered, hoping she could hear in his voice just how happy he was to see her again. He was eager to speak with her, to learn how things had gone after Ruth had spent the evening before helping Emma come to grips with the situation, but now was not the time.

"Coffee?" Catherine asked, and that was that.

* * *

The rain had sent them all inside, much to the children's displeasure. There was nothing they loathed quite so much as spending a summer day indoors, even when the weather was foul. Ruth did not approve of using the telly as a babysitter, and so she and Harry were doing their best to keep the children otherwise occupied. A row over toy trains had ended that particular line of play, and so, out of desperation, Ruth fetched down a stack of brightly colored paper and markers, and the children set to with a will. All three of them sat upon the floor, their materials strewn across the coffee table and their eyes intent upon their labor. Harry and Ruth sat beside one another on the sofa, their legs touching from knee to hip, though there was more than enough room for them to spread out. They both seemed to need that closeness, just now, proximity soothing their worries even when they could not speak aloud of what troubled them. Harry was soft and warm, and his voice when he spoke to the children was kind, and Ruth was glad of it.

"What are you drawing, Louis?" Harry asked, leaning forward to peer over the lad's shoulder. Ruth couldn't help but notice that as he did Harry also smoothly slid a sheet of bright pink paper off the table, commandeering it for himself.

"Dinosaur," Louis answered, far too busy with his work to spare any more words for an explanation.

"I'm drawing a dinosaur!" Gabe protested, as if it were unthinkable that they should undertake the same project.

"But you're drawing different kinds of dinosaurs, aren't you?" Ruth pointed out gently.

Gabe continued to pout, but he did so in merciful silence. Ruth fervently hoped that his sullen mood was a result of being cooped up inside, and not his displeasure at having discovered the truth about Harry and Emma.

Beside her Harry leaned back against the sofa, and as he did she noticed that his hands were busy with the paper he'd stolen. She watched, fascinated, as he worked, quickly, methodically, folding the paper again and again with some dedication.

"What are you doing?"

Ruth leaned towards him, her hand on his knee, and she could not help the sudden surge of fondness that filled her as he answered.

"You'll see," he said with a mysterious smile. _God,_ but she loved his smile, and she did not see it often enough. She squeezed his knee once, lightly, in retaliation for his obfuscation, but he was undeterred. Ruth thought she'd kept her question quiet enough to avoid attracting the children's attention, but it would seem that she was wrong for Emma was watching them both now, curiously. As Harry continued his work their daughter rose to her feet, and clambered into Ruth's lap.

"What is that, Mister Harry?" she asked him.

Beneath his skillful hands the paper was beginning to take on a new shape, and Ruth stared at him, wondering where on earth he had learned to do such a thing, and why she had never known about it. Of course, she reminded herself, that was the thing about Harry; it was impossible to know everything about him, for he was a man made of many layers, hard and soft and brilliant and stern and everything in between.

"It's called origami," he answered. Of course, he had not told Ruth what he was doing, but his approach to Emma was entirely different, and Ruth was grateful to him for it. "If you fold the paper the right way, you can make all kinds of things. This one is nearly finished. See if you can tell me what it is."

They had drawn the boys' attention, now; Louis and Gabe, still seated upon the floor, had spun around to watch in fascination as still Harry's hands worked at the paper, until at last his task was through. He inspected his creation for a moment, and then handed it to Emma with a flourish.

"It's a bird!" she exclaimed, balancing it gently on her palm, staring at it in wonder.

"It is," Harry said. "That kind of bird is called a crane. Do you like it?"

That Harry had chosen pink paper for this task had at first seemed rather strange to Ruth, but now she realized his intent, and it took everything she had to keep from leaning across and kissing him senseless there and then.

"I like it a lot," Emma answered, still inspecting the bird, fascinated.

"Then you should keep it," Harry said firmly.

Ruth's arms were wrapped around her daughter, holding Emma securely on her lap, and so she could not reach out to him, but she leaned against him, just a bit, hoping to convey to him her gratitude for his thoughtfulness.

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

Harry surveyed her warmly for a moment, and then shook his head, as if to say _not now._

"It was a very long time ago," he said, and Ruth knew then that the circumstances under which he'd learned this particular skill were not fit for little ears to hear, but that only increased her curiosity.

"Can you teach me how to do it, Granddad?" Louis asked from his perch upon the floor.

And so it was that they all wound up with brightly colored pieces of paper in their hands, trying with varying degrees of success to follow Harry's instructions. Gabe happily shredded his paper to bits, making a mess of it everywhere, while Louis quickly became frustrated with the whole endeavor and cast his paper aside in favor of returning to his drawing. Ruth and Emma persevered, though when the thing was done Ruth's paper was hopeless and wrinkled beyond all recognition. Emma's, though, Emma's looked quite good, if a little lopsided.

"Well done," Harry praised her gently, and Emma beamed in response. She carried the two little birds - the perfect one that Harry had made and the slightly deformed one she'd crafted with her own hands - back to the coffee table and began to draw again with a bright little smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"She must get that from you," Ruth said, holding up her own pitiful attempt.

Harry spared a glance for the children, and finding them all sufficiently occupied he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss against her cheek. He was beaming at her, and she knew by the look on his face how her words had moved him, how happy he was in that moment. Ruth was quite happy, too.

* * *

"Will I get to see Mister Harry again tomorrow, Mumma?" Emma asked sleepily. She was tucked up in her little bed, the two paper cranes resting safely on her bedside table. All day it seemed Ruth had been unable to keep from smiling; her cheeks faintly ached, but she could not recall having ever been happier than she was that day. The children were safe and well, Harry was close to hand, and their life was peaceful; she could not ask for anything more.

"You will," she promised, running a gentle hand over her daughter's hair.

Emma smiled and burrowed deeper under the covers, her whole body relaxing as she slowly gave herself over to sleep, and so Ruth left her there, making her way across the hall on silent feet to her own bedroom.

And there she found him, her Harry, standing just beside the bed, and the moment the door closed behind her she found herself wrapped up in his arms. Properly alone with him for the first time all day she breathed a sigh of relief, and pressed her lips to his neck.

"I love you," she whispered while his hands ran in gentle circles over her back. And she did, truly, loved his warm smile and his silly little laugh and all the things she'd come to learn about him, and all the things she had yet to discover. They only had two nights left, and she intended to make the most of them.

With that thought in mind she tilted her head back, and Harry responded in an instant, his lips slanting over hers as all their gentle contentment gave way to passion in a moment.


	21. Chapter 21

"This is a dream," Harry whispered into the darkness.

Ruth hummed, turning to press a gentle kiss to the bare skin of his chest, just above his beating heart. "If it is, I don't want to wake up," she told him.

Though she could not see his face, she fancied she could feel his smile, his affection articulating itself in the tender brush of his hands against her back as he held her close.

"It's as if I've just seen the sun rise after seven years of darkness."

He could be a dramatic orator, when he turned his mind to it, but there was no fond smile tugging at Ruth's lips just now, for she could hear the bitter truth of those words. She shifted slightly, resting her chin against his chest so that she could see his face. _Oh,_ that face, the one she loved best in all the world, wrinkled and worn and unaccountably sad, just now. They were lying tangled up together in her bed, enjoying a few moments' peace before dawn, before they would be rushed into the festivities of Gabe's birthday party. They had learned their lesson, after Thursday morning's disaster, and so Ruth had slept in a soft shirt that covered her from shoulders to mid-thigh, and Harry had pulled on his trunks - though he had refused to dress properly, grumbling about the infernal heat. She was glad of it, for the brush of his skin against hers, though grateful too that should Emma come bounding in once more they would spared the worst of the awkwardness of such an encounter.

She studied him for a moment, soft belly and broad shoulders and warm hazel eyes, gazing at her and yet not seeing her as he recalled some far off sorrow. They had not spoken about it, she realized, what had happened to Harry while she was away. They had talked of Ruth, her journey, of Emma's birth and all the steps of the winding road that had led Ruth to this place, but not once had Harry spoken of his own path. He had told her that Ros had taken charge of the Grid in his absence, and Ruth turned that piece of information over and over in her mind now. Why Ros, and not Adam? Adam was the senior agent, more gregarious, better at charming politicians and inspiring loyalty in his comrades. Surely he would have been a better fit for the position?

 _A lot can happen in seven years,_ Ruth thought, her heart suddenly full of dread.

"Tell me, Harry," she said softly.

He blinked, shaking his head slightly as if dispersing the cloud of melancholy that had fallen over him. With a gentle hand he reached out and ran his fingers through her dark hair, and in the furrow of his brow she could see him trying to decide how much to tell her, to choose between necessary evils and avoidable truths.

"That isn't your world any more," he murmured, as if he thought with such simple words he could dispel her curiosity and save them both the pain of what was to come.

"It will always be a part of me, Harry," she countered at once. "How do you think I've survived this long? That world, that place, it made me who I am. And I know you know that. Tell me."

For a moment he was silent, still frowning at her, the delicate joy they had so lovingly nurtured between them turning sour with the weight of tragedies and old disagreements. _Stubborn old mule,_ he had called her once, and though she had bristled at the jibe she knew that it was true, that she was at least half as stubborn as he, and she would refuse to let this moment pass without having the truth from him. Perhaps he saw the determination in her face, for at last he sighed, and spoke.

"We lost some friends."

That was a rather delicate way to put it, she thought glumly. Fear had begun to simmer low in her belly in a way it had not done for years as she pondered all the implications of his words. _Some friends._ More than one, then. But who? Did she really want to know? Could she stand not to?

"Harry-"

"Zaf was first," he said heavily.

The tears were swift and sudden, though not entirely unexpected. Ruth drew in a ragged breath, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to be strong for Harry's sake though her heart was breaking. Zaf, dear, sweet, charming Zaf, Zaf who was always ready with a joke and a sly grin. _I smile at every pretty woman I pass._ She could almost hear his voice, as clear as if he were standing beside her, and not long dead. Those were not the last words she'd ever heard from him, but she had treasured them in her heart, had in the early days of her exile imagined crossing paths with him on some sunny beach, the way his eyes would grow wide with wonder when he saw her belly large with child, the way she would laugh at his disbelief when she told him Harry was her baby's father, the way he would stop at nothing to bring her home. Only she had never seen him again, and now she never would.

"And then Adam."

She could not stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks, or the choked sob that escaped her. Harry tightened his grip upon her as she buried her face against his chest and wept for Adam, Adam who had been so kind to her, so strong, so devastated by the death of his beloved wife. It seemed so cruel, that fate should have torn Wes's father from him after the loss of his mother. Wes, that angel faced little boy; he'd be sixteen or so, now, with his whole life ahead of him, and no parents to help him through. Adam and Fiona had both been so wonderful, so vivacious, had seemed to Ruth's timid eyes to be indestructible, and yet they were gone, and Ruth remained, mourning their loss with everything she had.

After a time she quieted, and Harry prepared himself to deliver the final blow.

"We lost a young man called Ben Kaplan. You never met him. I think you would have liked him, though."

Ruth felt a passing pang of sorrow for this stranger, but it was nothing like the grief that overwhelmed her at the thought of Adam and Zaf. She let the moment pass, waiting for the rest of it.

"And Connie James."

At that name Ruth looked up at him sharply; she recalled Connie's name from a hundred different files she'd pulled from Registry over the years. Connie had been an analyst during Harry's days as a field agent, put out to pasture in the late nineties; how had she once more become embroiled in the darkness of the Grid, and why had Harry spoken her name so dispassionately?

"Is that all?" Ruth prompted him after a moment. She did not want to press him for details, not now, not yet, but one day she would. One day she would make him tell her, one day when she was more accustomed to the sheer gravity of these losses, when she felt she could bear it. Today, though, she prayed his tale was through.

"No," Harry confessed in a low, gruff sort of voice. "I'm so sorry, Ruth. We lost Jo as well."

If she had wept for Adam, it was nothing compared to how she wept for Jo now. Jo, young and vibrant and sweet, Jo who was not meant for their world, who had been drafted in quite by accident, who had been so full of promise. Ruth could think of nothing more heinous than the long list of lives snuffed out too soon that Harry had just laid out before her, and so she laid against him and let the tears take her, painting his skin where her cheek brushed against his chest. And through it all he held her, let her pour out the brokenness of her heart, for every name he'd given her this morning and all the others she carried etched in her memory. _I promise you, there will be time to grieve,_ he had told her once. Perhaps the time had finally come, now when they were older, and wiser, and sadder, and safe, finally, from the threat of further calamity. Perhaps the time had come to grieve, and to heal, here in this place where their daughter slept just down the hall, where the sun burned so brightly that all the horror of their past was banished into nothing more than faded memory.

Ruth could not say for how long she lay there weeping, but at last the tears had run their course, and she had no more left to shed. Beyond her bedroom window dawn was breaking, burning away the demons that haunted them in the night. Her friends were dead, lost to unspeakable violence, but their ghosts were quiet in the early morning stillness. This place, this room, this house, this town, was not meant for such shadows.

"Promise you'll come back to me," Ruth breathed, her voice ragged and worn from the toll her emotions had taken. They had lost so much already, and though she knew that Harry had committed to his chosen course, that it was intention to leave his life behind and make a new one here with her, with Emma, with their whole family safe and well, the bite of fear still lingered. So much could happen, in a month, so many things could go wrong. Harry might be ready to leave the Service, but the Service did not so easily grant safe passage to its best and brightest. Men like Harry left in body bags, more often than not, brought low by bullets or by a heart attack at their desk. Men like Harry did not escape unscathed.

"I promise," Harry swore, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He meant it, she knew, longed for nothing more than the life they'd imagined for themselves, but she could not shake the sense that such promises were beyond his power to keep. That had been the hardest thing, about her former life, the inescapable truth that her life was not her own. The Service took what it wanted, her time, her friends, her spirit, her body, even, and she was powerless to protest.

 _No more,_ she thought, a fierce, possessive sort of defiance building up inside her. She had died and been reborn, had carried her child through calamity and fought tooth and nail to build a good life for herself, and she would be damned if she let anyone or anything take it from her.

Without warning Ruth rose up, kicking aside the thin covers to straddle Harry's hips, her palms planted on the rise of his chest. His hands rose up reflexively, wrapped around her wrists, not pinning her in place or pushing her away but clinging to her as if he were a drowning man and she a liferaft. For seven years she had missed him, ached for him, clung to her love of him as a child to her favorite toy, and now he was _here_. He would see their daughter grow, would play with his grandchildren, would grow old and fat and happy in her embrace. They would live their dreams.

"You're _mine_ , Harry Pearce," she said with some heat. The rest of that thought - _and no one will ever take you from again -_ remained unspoken. Before he could respond she bowed her head and captured his lips with her own, hungrily, desperately. He seemed to understand what she was trying to convey, with the sting of her teeth and the surge of her tongue between his lips, and he responded to her at once, flipping them easily. He fell upon her like a man possessed, and she returned his passion with every ounce of love she possessed, cradling him between her thighs and catching her fingers in his hair, her heart beating out a rhythm of _Harry Harry Harry_ as he divested her of her clothes and buried himself inside her once more. This was _right._ This was _real._ They were _home._


	22. Chapter 22

_You're mine, Harry Pearce._

Those words she had told him, with heat and conviction in her voice, just before he had rolled her beneath him and proved the truth of her declaration with his own fervent passion. All morning he heard those words echoing in his mind each time he looked at her, saw her smiling fondly at him while she assisted in setting up for Gabe's birthday party, while the children ran wild through the grass and Catherine stood in the thick of it, barking orders like a drill sergeant as slowly it all began to come together. The sky was clear and bluer than he could ever recall having seen it before, the sun hot and bright and cheerful, somehow. A slight breeze played through the leaves of the gnarled oak trees and it seemed to Harry a beautiful, wondrous thing, that he should be alive and in this place, surrounded by all those he loved best, with a lifetime of such mornings stretching out in front of him.

"What do you think?" Catherine asked him somewhat anxiously, surveying their handiwork before reaching into her pocket to check the time on her mobile.

They had erected a little table laden with cake and various other foodstuffs - all carefully covered, at the moment, to keep the flies at bay - and two large umbrellas stood off to the side, chairs gathered beneath them and a banner proudly declaring _Happy Birthday!_ strung between them. The pool was clean and ready for invasion, a few little games set up for the children to play while their parents watched from the shade of the umbrellas. To Harry's mind, it seemed more than adequate for his grandson's fourth birthday.

"It looks wonderful," he declared grandly.

Catherine shot him a grateful smile, but before he could say another word in her praise he felt a little hand reach up to grasp his own, and looked down into the beaming face of his youngest daughter.

"Will you swim with us, Mister Harry?" she asked, her eyes wide and round and blue and hopeful.

"I will later, I promise," he answered her. "Once everyone gets here. Will that be all right?"

This was, to his mind, the first real test of the feasibility of his plans. The parents who would be attending this little gathering were close friends with Catherine and Ruth both. One or two of them worked at the university, and the rest they had met through the children's school and playgroups, and so they had all become quite close. If Harry was to stay, to take up permanent residence here, these people would of necessity become part of his life as well. Could he manage it, he asked himself, to be just plain _Harry,_ not frightening or intimidating but just a man, enjoying a sunny afternoon with his children and grandchildren? It had been quite some time since he had done any sort of socializing without political agenda, and he wasn't entirely sure he was up to the task. What exactly was he supposed to say to these people, academics and doctors and lawyers, who knew nothing of his past and the nature of his work? And on top of that, of course, was the fact that it was generally known that Ruth - or Rachel, as she would be called today - was widowed, little Emma's father long dead. How would they respond, when they saw him in the flesh, when they learned that he was Catherine's father? He would have to be on his best behavior, today, would have to be charming, to smooth the waters and keep from embarrassing his lover or his child.

 _It's going to be an interesting day,_ he thought.

Emma, meanwhile, had turned over his promise in her mind, and decided that _later_ was an acceptable response.

"Sure," she said, and then she bounded off again in search of Louis.

Ruth took her place almost immediately, sidling up beside Harry and taking his hand in her own as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Are we ready, then?" she asked.

Harry, grinning fit to burst, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her gently, and tried to ignore the way his daughter rolled her eyes.

"I think so," Catherine declared. "But before everyone gets here, do we need to...get our stories straight?" She gestured vaguely toward Ruth and Harry's entwined hands.

"I think we have to," Ruth said. Her voice carried with it a note of trepidation Harry felt echoed in his own heart, and he moved at once to reassure her - to reassure himself - that they would survive this day unscathed.

"Keep it simple," he said softly. "My name is Harry Pearce. I worked for the government. I've retired to spend my twilight years with my family." Ruth squeezed his hand and shot him a reproachful look, but still he carried on. "I'm Catherine's father. I'm Ruth's-"

"You'll have to be Rachel's husband," Ruth interrupted him, blushing slightly. "I've told everyone I was married. I don't want to get bogged down in details today."

She would not meet his eye; perhaps she felt it was too much, to ask him to play the part of her husband, but in truth after their conversation that morning, he was rather inclined to go along with it. Another trial run, of sorts, for if he was to make a life in this place, it was his intention to one day - perhaps one day very soon - make Ruth _Lady Pearce._ He wanted their family whole, and together, permanently. Now was not the time for such a declaration, however much he might want to make it; he would not ask her until his affairs were settled, until he could take her hand and never let her go. He was set to depart for London the following day, and he felt it would be cruel, to make such a promise to Ruth and then leave her at once. No, he would save that question for his return.

"I think that would be best," he agreed.

The slam of a car door and the clamor of children's voices echoed suddenly from the front drive, heralding the arrival of the first of the guests.

"Here we go," Catherine said.

* * *

There were ten children, in the end, accompanied by seven adults; two couples, and three mothers on their own, all of whom greeted both Ruth and Catherine with fond embraces and hands full of brightly-wrapped presents. The older children splashed in the shallow pool with Catherine and another woman beside them, keeping an eye on them, while the little ones played some sort of complicated game that seemed to involve a lot of shrieking and rolling about on the grass. The parents flitted happily from the umbrellas to the food and back again, wine glasses in their hands, talking quietly amongst themselves. To Harry's great relief, conversation seemed to be restricted primarily to the children, and so he could mostly nod and smile, and keep his mouth shut. He tried not to stick too close to Ruth's side, not wanting to intrude as she enjoyed this time with her friends, not wanting to appear overly attentive when it truth he wanted nothing more than to take her hand and drag her back into her house, to hide away from the bustle and the noise and the curious stares of the parents. He had faced far worse than this, though, and so he kept a smile on his face and tried to be helpful, where he could. He had promised Emma he would swim with her, but he didn't fancy the idea of leaping into the pool in full view of all and sundry; he feared the scars upon his back and chest - and, most alarmingly, the old bullet wound on his shoulder - might raise undue questions, and he was very much trying to avoid drawing attention to himself.

It would seem he had failed in that regard, however, for as he emerged from Catherine's kitchen with a fresh bucket of ice for the drinks he found himself accosted almost at once by a sharp-eyed woman in a dress that seemed to his eye much too fine for a backyard birthday party on a hot summer day.

"I didn't catch your name," she said, offering a smile that was all teeth.

Reflexively his eyes flitted to Ruth in search of some reassurance regarding this woman and her intentions, but Ruth was deep in conversation with a tall, dark-haired man, and she paid him no mind.

"Harry," he answered her.

"Maxine," she told him, holding out her hand. Dutifully he deposited the ice bucket on the table and took the proffered hand, shaking briefly. "You can call me Max. Most people do."

"Pleasure to meet you, Max," he said, somewhat stiffly. "Do you work with Catherine?"

"I work with Rachel, actually. I'm an archaeologist, and there's some overlap between our students."

Harry wasn't entirely sure how he was meant to respond to that and so he said nothing at all, rather hoping this conversation might end sooner rather than later. Though he could not say exactly why, it seemed to him as if this Max were digging for something, and whatever it was, he had no intention of giving it to her.

"It's funny, Harry," she said conspiratorially, "I could have sworn Rachel told me her husband was dead."

He fought the urge to groan; this was exactly the sort of thing he'd been hoping to avoid.

"That's a very long story, I'm afraid," he told her carefully. "But as you can see, I'm alive and well."

Louis, who had run into the house in search of the loo, chose that precise moment to run up to him, and though he loved the boy with all his heart he could not help but curse his grandson's sense of timing.

"Granddad!" Louis said excitedly. "Emma said you promised to swim with us. Will you come now?"

Though it would have made a convenient excuse for leaving Max at once Harry remained firm in his decision to keep his shirt on in front of their guests, and so he knew he could not agree.

"Soon, Louis, I promise," he said, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair. Louis pouted, just a little, but the lure of the cool water of the pool was too much for him to resist, and so rather than persist in badgering his grandfather he simply took off running again.

"Granddad?" Max asked him with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm Catherine's father," he said shortly.

Max looked as if Christmas had come early; her expression delighted and somewhat bloodthirsty.

"So you're Rachel's husband and Catherine's father? That must make holidays interesting."

"Saves time."

His gruff response earned him another sharp-toothed smile, but he was saved by Ruth, who having caught sight of his predicament hurried over to him at once, sliding beneath his arm and smiling up at him brightly.

"All right, darling?" she asked. Her voice was a little breathless, the color high in her cheeks, but she had committed to this ruse, and he was grateful for both her courage and her intervention.

"I am now," he told her, smiling and pulling her in a little closer. Max's eyes were dancing back and forth between the pair of them, and Harry could almost feel the wheels turning in her mind.

"Max, I'm so glad you're here," Ruth said smoothly, distracting the other woman at once. "Emma just loves playing with Charlie."

As the conversation turned to their children Ruth deftly diverted the attention from their own somewhat unusual predicament, and it seemed that even Max was not impolite enough to raise the subject of their family tree unprompted. They spoke together for a time, and then Max wandered off under the guise of checking on her son, leaving Ruth and Harry alone for a moment.

"She's...interesting," Harry murmured in a voice designed to carry no farther than Ruth's ear.

Ruth groaned. "She's a cow, but she knows everyone, and if we hadn't invited her she would have made things difficult for all of us. Emma really does like Charlie, though, so it isn't all bad."

"No," Harry agreed, looking out across the party, his eyes going to Emma unerringly and finding her laughing and splashing as the sunlight glinted off her golden curls. "I suppose it isn't."


	23. Chapter 23

"I didn't think I'd ever get to meet your husband," Max remarked in a manner that was likely intended to sound casual but came off predatory instead. "What with him being dead, and all."

Ruth sighed, not even trying to hide it. Most everyone had gone home; Gabe had gone down for his nap, overwhelmed by presents and visitors, and only two other children lingered, splashing in the pool with Louis and Emma while Cate floated amongst them and Harry stood off to the side, speaking quietly to them. Overall the afternoon had been a success, but Ruth had known, deep down, that Max would not let the matter drop. It was a piece of gossip too delicious to pass up, and Max's unspoken questions would soon be echoing in the minds of everyone she knew. Ruth had _lied,_ and though her reasons for doing so had been just, the time had come for her to face the music, to confront the mess she'd inadvertently made of her life.

"We were separated," she said with a shrug. The idea had come to her, over the course of the day, the best way to handle the narrative of her own life now that Harry had so spectacularly up-ended her careful fabrications. "He worked for a very sensitive department of the government, and I couldn't talk about him or what he did. I genuinely thought we'd never see him again. It just seemed like the easiest solution."

"But now he's back?"

Max was an odd sort of person in that she was both intensely self-centered, and genuinely affectionate towards her friends. And Ruth was one of her friends, after a fashion; until this moment Ruth had not been terribly interesting, and so she did not have to worry about Max's gossip, and likewise she had in no way threatened Max's sense of ambition. There was a piece of Max, however small it might have been, that cared for Ruth, saw her as a friend and confidant, and beneath her question Ruth heard concern as well as curiosity. Max wanted to know that Ruth was well, that Harry's arrival was not a catastrophe for her, and once she obtained that reassurance Max would be sure to tell everyone she knew all about Ruth's resurrected husband and unusual connection to Cate. In some ways, Ruth thought wryly, telling Max the truth would be the best course of action, for it would save her the trouble of having to tell everyone else herself.

"Yes," she said simply. "He'll be retired soon, and we've...patched things up, between us. He wants to spend more time with his family, and I want him here."

"That's nice," Max said blandly. "Is it not weird, though, being married to Cate's dad?" this last she added quite quickly, reminding Ruth rather forcefully of field agents in interrogations.

"It is and it isn't," she said. "He was never _Cate's dad_ to me, he was always Harry. And the kids get along so well, really, it isn't a problem." _Anymore,_ she added in her mind. _It was a different story last Sunday._

"I thought you two didn't know each other when you lived in London," Max remarked shrewdly.

Ruth blushed, for she had forgotten that little detail. It was hard to keep up, sometimes, keeping track of who knew what, which pieces of information could be safely shared and which ought to be closely guarded. That was the thing Ruth had loathed most about her life as a spy, the constant game of _need to know,_ keeping secrets from those she was closest to, including her own family. She had thought, before now, that she'd left that part of her life behind, but she was beginning to see that there were still trials ahead.

"We didn't," she answered honestly. "I'd never met Cate, before she moved here. It's a very long story."

Clearly that was not enough for Max, whose keen eyes told Ruth all too plainly that her friend was about to insist that she had more than enough time to hear the story in full. To Ruth's great relief their conversation was interrupted then by the sound of Emma's voice, reminding Harry - quite loudly - "You promised!"

As Ruth and Max watched with interest Harry looked around somewhat furtively, no doubt checking to see how many parents still lingered. Louis and Emma had both extracted his solemn word that he would swim with them, and he had dutifully changed into his trunks, but he had been waiting for the guests to clear out before jumping in. Oh, he hadn't told Ruth as much, but he hadn't needed to. He had never hesitated to swim with the children in the past, and she understood his concerns about letting other people see the truth of the hard life he'd lived writ large across his chest. It seemed that he had decided this moment was safe enough, for the next thing Ruth knew he had shrugged out of his shirt and made his way up the ladder into the pool.

Beside her, Max made a somewhat startled sound. "Good lord," she said. "What happened to him?"

There was no good way to answer that question, Ruth knew. Even from this distance, the scars on his back and chest were visible as he moved, the bullet wound on his shoulder the most obvious of the lot. Each time Ruth saw the puckered flesh of that scar her breath caught in her throat, knowing how close they had come to calamity, how close she had come to losing him completely, before he was even hers to claim. In some ways she resented Max for bearing witness to it now, this secret sorrow that Ruth and Harry shared. Their story was not meant for other people's ears.

"Why don't we see if Cate wants us to start breaking down the tables?" Ruth suggested brightly.

Recognizing that she would get no answer to her question Max just hummed, and followed along behind her.

* * *

Somehow they had done it. They had survived the afternoon relatively unscathed, and through it all Harry had done everything Ruth could have asked of him, and more besides. He had been charming with the ladies and friendly with the gentlemen and utterly won the children round to his side, had helped as needed and not drawn undue attention to himself. He had kissed her cheek and played with their daughter, and through it all, he had filled Ruth's heart with a sense of hope, of possibility. They could do this, she realized, could make a life together in this place. Somehow she had found answers to all the questions that plagued her, and Harry had by virtue of his steady, calming presence reassured her that they could be quite happy, together.

She was, at that very moment, leaning against the doorframe, looking into Cate's sitting room. Cate, Louis, and Emma were all three sprawled across the vast sofa, eyes closed, damp hair soaking into the sofa cushions while they rested. The party was over, the dishes were washed, the guests were gone, and peace had fallen over that little house.

The sound of footsteps heralded Harry's arrival behind her, and in a moment his arms wrapped around her waist and his chin came to rest against her shoulder.

"I think they're asleep," he said softly as together they gazed fondly at their little family.

They were, all three of them, gloriously asleep, and the baby monitor resting on the table by Cate's head gave evidence of the fact that Gabe was sleeping, too. It was just gone 3:00, the perfect time for everyone to have a bit of a rest, but Ruth had other thoughts on her mind. Harry had been so lovely, so completely generous, and watching him keep his promise to their daughter, playing with her, laughing and carefree such as Ruth had never seen him before, filled her heart full to bursting with love of him. He would leave them the next day, she knew, but the sun was shining and the children were sleeping, and a better moment would never come.

With a smile she turned in his arms, brushing a kiss against his lips before slipping away. She caught his fingers with her own and pulled him along in her wake, and he went with her willingly, offering no words of question or protest. She led him through the kitchen, out into the heat, across the grass, and through her own back door. She led him up the stairs and into her bedroom, and the moment the door closed behind them he had her wrapped up in his arms once more.

"You were lovely today," she told him between tender kisses, his hands reaching out at once to tug her shirt over her head.

"You are lovely every day," he answered her as her his lips fell to the curve of her neck and her hands made for the waistband of his trunks.

Comfortable with the way of things between them now that the old habits were returning to them each time they fell together, they helped one another out of their clothes, laughing at stubborn straps and buttons, gasping at the graze of fingertips on sunkissed skin. Harry was tanner now than he had been a few days before, the rise of his cheeks tinged pink from the sun, and Ruth gloried in it, these small, physical changes that gave evidence of the titanic shift that had taken place within their hearts.

"I love you," Harry whispered as he lay her down gently on the bed, covering her with his own bulk. "And I will never leave you."

She understood what it was he was trying to tell her and so she did not protest, only wound her fingers through his hair and held him close as his lips mapped the soft curve of her breast. Tomorrow he would leave, would fly back to London, but a piece of him would stay with her here, always. And when the time came, when he was free, he would come back to her, would give her all of himself as he had promised. There was nothing Ruth wanted more.

They came together slowly in the glow of the late afternoon sun; with careful hands she urged him onto his back and then settled atop his hips, rocking against him, her head thrown back and her voice joyous and free as again and again he surged within her, bound them together with ties that could not be broken. He was _hers_ , her Harry, and always his heart would be with her, in the beauty of their child, that little girl they both loved so completely, the manifestation of their love of one another. Still she moved, pleasure sparking and swirling deep inside her the way it had only ever done when Harry held her, his hands anchored to her hips and his eyes watching her adoringly as she ground and thrust atop him. And then his hands were moving, drawing her down to rest against his chest, holding her tight as he thrust up into her trembling heat, hard, and harder still, her cries muffled as she pressed her lips to his neck and lost herself in the feeling of _Harry_ , solid, and warm, and real, and here, buried as deep inside her as it was possible for him to go. Two more thrusts, and she was coming undone, and then he followed after, groaning her name as he lost himself to pleasure. Sated, delighted, more sure of herself and her desires and the hopefulness of her future than she had been for a decade Ruth sagged against him, dragging her lips across his collarbone while her heart raced in time to his own.

"I love you," she whispered. And then, exhausted from the long events of the day and from the catharsis of watching as her every wish became reality, Ruth closed her eyes and slipped into dreams, content as a cat lying in the sunshine. Harry's arms were heavy and strong, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her was comforting in its regularity. She was safe, and well, and happy.


	24. Chapter 24

Much later that same evening, after Harry and Ruth had walked back to Cate's house, grinning sheepishly when they found her awake and raising her eyebrow at them, after the children had been roused from their naps, after they had played together for a time and enjoyed a light supper all of them together, Cate and Ruth stood side by side in the kitchen, washing the dishes while Harry kept the little ones occupied in the sitting room - playing dinosaurs, of course.

"I'm driving dad to the airport in the morning," Cate said softly as they worked. "His flight is painfully early, I'll need him back here and ready to go by 5:00."

Ruth blushed, somewhat embarrassed by Cate's knowing smile, the way she had assumed that Harry would be spending the night with Ruth. Though they hadn't discussed it, Ruth had assumed much the same thing; it was his last night in this place, and she wanted, very much, for them to spend it together. But Cate was his daughter, and Ruth didn't want to keep him away from her. They had spent most of the past week together, all six of them, but Harry had made this journey to spend time with Cate, and Ruth felt just a bit guilty at the thought of keeping him all to herself.

"I'll talk to Harry," she said. Perhaps they could come up with a plan that would allow Harry to spend some time with Cate and the boys this evening before making his way back to Ruth's bed; that seemed the best course of action for everyone.

"Thanks, Ruth," Cate said with a little smile. Though perhaps other people might have found it more difficult, switching back and forth between _Rachel_ and _Ruth,_ accepting that she was somehow two completely different people, Cate had adjusted with relative ease. Perhaps that was just an unavoidable effect of having Harry Pearce for a father; she had learned, from a very young age, that not everyone was what - or who - they seemed. "Thank you for everything, really. It's been so wonderful having him here, and knowing that he's going to come back, that he's going to make an effort for his family...that's all down to you, I think, and I'm grateful."

Ruth smiled, a bit sadly, as she pondered those words and how best to respond to them. "It's Harry you have to thank," she said at last. "He has always wanted to be a good father, a good man. You told me he seems different, but I think it's just that he's finally able to be himself, completely."

Cate sniffled, just a little, and Ruth turned away, giving her friend a moment to collect herself. The very foundations of the earth had shifted beneath their feet, but for the first time in a very long while, Ruth was looking forward to the future. She made her way towards the sitting room, where she found the dinosaurs all worn out, Louis and Gabe sprawled across the sofa and watching the telly while Harry sat beside them with Emma curled up on his lap, dangerously close to falling asleep. The tender look upon his face, the gentle way he held their child, the incredibly thought that he had made his way to her at last and that, one day very soon, he would come to stay forever, filled Ruth's heart full to bursting with love of him. As quietly as she could she crossed the room and reached out, smoothing her hand across his hair and smiling down at him gently.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," he answered, catching her hand in his own and lifting it to his lips for a moment.

"I'm going to take Emma home and put her to bed," Ruth explained. "I thought it might be nice for you to spend some time with Cate. But later, if you want…"

"I'll be there," he promised, his gaze warm and soft and full of love. Yes, he would be there, tonight and in the future, had given all of himself to her and promised her the world. Ruth lacked for nothing, in that moment, safe and well and surrounded by her family. She bowed her head and brushed her lips against his once, gently, and then she gathered her daughter into her arms. Emma clung to her, eyes closed, her whole body relaxed, and Ruth knew then that all her hopes were justified, that Emma had grown comfortable with her father, that bringing Harry into their lives had been the right choice.

"I'll see you later," she whispered, and then she left him, both of them smiling, just a little, at the thought of all that was to come.

* * *

Back in her home Ruth helped Emma shuffle into her pajamas and then tucked her into bed, sitting beside her for a moment and running a gentle hand over her daughter's soft blonde curls.

"Is Mister Harry leaving tomorrow, Mumma?" Emma asked in a voice thick with sleep, not even bothering to open her eyes.

"He is," Ruth said. The sorrow was there, nipping at her heels, knowing that to achieve all her dreams about the future she would first have to survive the endless weeks of Harry's absence while he settled his affairs in London. "But he'll be back, love," she promised.

"I didn't say goodbye," Emma said fretfully, and Ruth's heart ached, just a bit, knowing that as difficult as it would be for her to let Harry go, Emma would struggle with it, too. She had only known Harry such a little while, but the knowledge that he was her father, her family, a vital part of her life that up until now had been missing, had endeared him to her, and Ruth was concerned that her daughter might take the loss of him quite hard. They would get through this together, she told herself, the way they had faced every trial since the day of Emma's birth.

"You can see him in the morning," she promised. Since Cate was taking Harry to the airport, Ruth had agreed to keep an eye on the boys. It would be no difficult thing to carry Emma across the grass, to let her say goodbye to her father, properly, and then curl up with her on the sofa. Perhaps they would both be able to go back to sleep, to comfort one another in the stillness of the early morning.

This seemed agreeable enough to Emma, for she did not speak again. Ruth kissed her forehead once and then made her way to her own bed, trying her very best to keep the melancholy at bay. Harry was not gone yet, and when the time came, when she would be forced to send him on his way, she could at least cling to the knowledge that one day, very soon, he would come back to her forever.

* * *

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" Catherine asked him as they sat together at her kitchen table over two cups of strong tea. The boys had long since fallen asleep, both of them delivering their goodbyes to their grandfather this evening rather than wake early to see him off. Those boys; they had been a revelation, to Harry, those fine children who were his daughter's flesh and blood, the next generation of their somewhat unusual little family. He adored them both, and was deeply grateful for the opportunity he'd been given to get to know them, to become a part of their lives. It still seemed strange, sometimes, to think that his little girl had children of her own, that she had grown from a child into a woman of her own making, that she had loved so fiercely, lived this whole life that until now he had known nothing about. In his mind she was perpetually twelve years old, all gangly legs and knobbly knees and her heart so full of a wide-eyed curiosity for the world, and he felt a deep-seated need to protect her, to keep her safe from harm. And yet, with every moment he spent in her company she was proving to him, again and again, that she was her own person, that she could fight her own battles. Yes, he thought, being a father was a strange and wonderful thing.

"I am," he answered. "My time with the service is through. If nothing else, this week has proved they can carry on quite well without me. I want to be here, Catherine. With my family."

"It's only been a week, dad," Catherine pointed out fretfully. "What if things don't go well with you and Ruth? I don't want the boys to get used to you being here and then just have you leave again."

Harry sighed, somewhat mournfully. He understood her reservations, and he shared them, but his mind was made up. "This isn't just about Ruth and I," he explained slowly. "I love her, Catherine. I have loved her for years. I don't think you need to worry about us. But even if something were to happen, I have made my choice. You're here, Emma's here, the boys are here. What do I have, if I stay in London?" _An empty house, and a very old dog, and a job that may kill me one day._

"You really think you can just pick up where you left off with her?"

There was no accusation in her voice; Catherine seemed, if anything, simply weary, exhausted from so many days of struggle, from so many unexpected revelations, from having to rearrange her entire worldview, and Harry did his best to answer her honestly, without frustration or heat.

"Things are different, now," he said. "Ruth and I have lost each other once already. I'm not letting her go again, not without a fight."

That seemed to be sufficient answer for Catherine, for she reached out and patted his forearm in a comforting sort of way. "I'm happy for you, dad," she told him earnestly. "But now it's time for me to go to sleep."

She rose to her feet and kissed his cheek as they murmured good night to one another, and then Harry was, at last, alone, left to make his way to Ruth's house where the dearest longing of his heart was waiting for him with open arms.

* * *

She'd left the back door unlocked, and he had made his way through it and up the stairs silent as a shadow. In the house across the garden his bags were packed, Cate and the boys sleeping peacefully, and so there was nothing left for him to do but come to her, hold her in his arms, press his lips to the curve of her neck and reassure himself that she was really here, that he had really sworn this commitment to her, that the life they dreamed of really could come to be.

At her doorway he paused for a moment, palm pressed flat to the worn surface of the door, thinking about the woman who rested within that room, the child who slept just across the hall, thinking how much his life had changed over the course of one all too brief week. _Ruth is in this room,_ he thought, somewhat dazed; he had held her, touched her, loved her, tasted her, laughed with her, stood beside her for days now, and yet still sometimes that thought caught him off guard, left him feeling as if his life were no more than a dream from which he must surely wake, and soon. How could it be that Ruth was here, after the long years of her absence, the endless parade of death that had befallen him without her there to guide him, the losses and the grief and the uncertainty? Ruth, who had disappeared into nothingness in the early hours of a foggy London morning, Ruth who had been a part of his world for such a short while, and yet had changed him so indelibly, Ruth who was the mother of his child.

He was smiling, when at last he opened the door. Inside the room he found her, his dearest love, propped up against the pillows, a book in her hand and a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips at the sight of him.

For a moment he was completely overcome by the glorious vision of her, the soft expanse of her thighs visible beneath the oversized t-shirt she wore, the delicate curve of her hip, the brilliance of her eyes. She was almost painfully lovely and all he wanted, all he could think of in that moment, was _her._

He crossed to her bedside in three long strides, and had her wrapped up in his arms and his lips pressed hard to hers in a moment. Beneath him she smiled, the nip of her teeth against his bottom lip playful and insistent, the way she so often was, and her hands slipped at once beneath his shirt to glide in gentle circles across the bare skin of his back.

"I love you," he breathed against her lips.

And then, despite the fact he was certain his body would not allow him a second showing today, despite the twinge in his bad knee and the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment, he ran his palm along the back of her thigh, hitched her leg higher up on his hip and ground mindlessly against her until their restraint was in tatters, until they tore the clothes off one another and lost themselves in bliss and heat and passion.

They rested together, after, Harry's head pillowed against the soft curve of her stomach while she ran her fingers gently through his hair.

"I don't want to leave you," he said. It was true, and he was always too loose-lipped and comfortable after sex to keep his thoughts to himself.

The scrape of Ruth's nails against his scalp betrayed her own inner turmoil, but when she spoke her voice was gentle, wrapping around him soft and comforting as a blanket.

"I don't want you to go," she answered. "But we both know you must."

"It will be different this time," he promised, as much to himself as to her, turning his head slightly to press a kiss against the soft skin of her stomach. "I can ring you, while I'm away."

"Email," she suggested, a playful grin dancing across her face as still her hands traced over and over every inch of him she could reach.

"A letter, perhaps," he countered, feigning grumpiness when in truth he was nothing short of delighted. Oh, he had no intention of putting anything in writing, compromising his girls in such a fashion before he was truly free of the service, but he liked this, this idea that they could be, at long last, normal people, that Ruth was safe, that one day they might take their child to London, to walk along the riverside, to sit together in St James's Park and watch the ducks and the puffy white clouds scudding across an impossibly blue sky, that they might together be nothing short of deliriously happy.

"It's only for a little while," she said softly, and in her voice he heard all of his own doubts, his own fears, his own desperate longings. He only planned to be away from her side for such a little while, but so much could happen in such a short span of time, he knew, and he could not help but worry, as did she, about what was to come.

"I swear to you, my love," he whispered fiercely. "I will come back to you."

Beneath him Ruth shifted, the pair of them rolling together, grinning and tugging at one another until they were both lying on their sides, Ruth's leg hooked round his hip and her face so incredibly close to his own, the tip of her nose brushing against his with every breath they took. She was rapturous, this close, beatific, the shine of her eyes so impossibly lovely that he did not dare blink, hardly dared to breath as he drank in this moment.

"You better," she answered. And then she captured his lips with her own, and they did not speak again for quite some time.

* * *

They did not sleep much, through the long hours of the night. With gentle hands and reverent lips they sealed their commitment into one another's skin, spoke quietly of their plans, what he would do when he arrived in London, what he would do when he was finally free to return to her. Though Ruth's heart was heavy at the very thought she agreed that it might be for the best if he rented a place of his own for a while when he came back to America, if they took their time settling into a routine together, if he took the opportunity to decide how best to occupy himself in his retirement. Despite all his protests Ruth knew him, knew he was not one given much to idleness, that until this week the word _relax_ had not been in his vocabulary, and she did not want resentment to fester as he languished at home alone and Ruth went off to work each day. Time was something they had never had in abundance, and so though she knew it was for the best she could not help but fret about wasted opportunities.

 _It won't be for very long,_ she told herself, fingertips brushing softly against the line of Harry's cheek while he lay beside her, watching her with eyes warm and soft in the pre-dawn darkness. _And it's what we need._

"It's time," Harry murmured quietly.

She knew he was right, of course, knew that they should rise, make their way to the loo, shrug into their clothes and gather Emma from her bed, go over to Cate's so that Ruth could return Harry to his daughter's care and send him on his way. For all that she knew she must she could hardly bear the thought of letting him go, and so she only wrapped her arms that much tighter around him, drew him down into the cradle of her thighs.

"You will ring me, when you get there?" she asked him in a small voice.

"I will," he promised, offering her a tender kiss to prove the truth of his words. "I will ring you every day."

Ruth had some doubts as to the feasibility of that particular vow; after all, she knew better than anyone the demands of Harry's daily schedule, and between his work and the time difference she couldn't see how he would manage it every day. Still, though, she allowed him this fantasy, did not challenge him or shatter the precious hope he carried.

One of his hands traced the line of her collarbone, dipped down to press his palm flat against the steady beat of her heart. They stayed like that for quite some time, silent and holding on to one another, listening to the steady thrum of their blood through their veins, soaking in the heat and promise of the moment. Ruth had decided it would be best to say her proper goodbye to Harry here, where no one else could see, where they could share their fears and their desires quietly and without regret.

"Promise me we'll be all right, Harry," she whispered.

"I promise," he answered at once. "We will be more than all right, Ruth. You'll see."

He kissed her again, harder this time, all heat and passion and delirious want, but before they could fall too far he rolled away from her and rose to her feet, and Ruth did the same. It was time to face the day, no matter how much they might both dread it.

They went through their morning routine together, brushing teeth and washing their faces, Ruth tying back her hair while Harry grumbled about having already packed his razor. She ran her fingertips against the stubble on his cheek and whispered softly _I think you'd look quite dashing with a beard,_ and he grinned and she laughed and they carried on, together. Once they were dressed they made their way across the hall to their daughter's room, watched her for a moment as she slept, their hands intertwined as they both gazed down on this child they had made, together. Ruth gathered Emma into her arms, giving thanks for the fact that though her daughter was growing every single day, still she was small enough for Ruth to hold her close. The expression on Harry's face as he watched the pair of them together was one of almost naked longing, and she could see in his eyes how very much he did not want to leave them. She could do no more than smile at him sadly, press her lips to his scruffy cheek before they made their way across the grass in the dim light of the very earning morning.

Cate was waiting for them, when they reached her house, and Emma was finally awake enough to stand on her own two feet, clinging to her mother's hand.

"I'll just go fetch my things," Harry said heavily, leaving the three of them alone for a moment.

"All right, Ruth?" Cate asked, handing her a cup of fresh made coffee, which Ruth accepted gratefully.

"As well as can be expected," she answered truthfully. There was a mournful sort of feeling rising in her heart, but she tried to beat it back, tried to remind herself that this parting was only temporary, was not the shattering devastation of a kiss shared by the riverside with no hope of ever seeing one another again. _It's different this time,_ she tried to tell herself. _You'll see._

At long last Harry returned, carrying his little bag. Ruth noted with a surge of affection that while he had taken the time to change his clothes, he had forgone a shave. Maybe he had taken her words to heart, she thought, and for a moment she tried to imagine it, Harry with a neat beard or a goatee perhaps, and the very idea of seeing him so changed from the stern persona he adopted on the Grid made her smile.

"Ready, dad?" Cate asked, but before Harry could answer little Emma quite suddenly tore away from her mother's grasp, and flew at him with a ferocious burst of unexpected energy.

Though his expression was slightly befuddled Harry caught her at once, dropping his bag and gathering the little girl into his arms. Emma flung her arms around his neck, and buried her face against him.

"Don't go, daddy," she said in a broken little voice, and Ruth's vision went hazy with tears, her hand rising up to cover her mouth as she tried to stifle the little sob that longed to escape her. It was the very first time Emma had ever referred to him in such a way, and hearing that word from her lips now, knowing how devastated her daughter was at the thought of Harry's departure, tore at Ruth's heartstrings.

Harry made a gentle shushing sound, holding Emma close. "It's all right, sweetheart," he said softly. "I'll be back before you know it."

Emma had begun to cry, and so Ruth crossed the room to join the pair of them at once, one of her arms wrapping around Harry's waist while the other ran soothing circles over Emma's back.

"I don't want you to go," Emma repeated stubbornly through her tears, and Harry just looked at Ruth helplessly, completely at a loss as to what to do. The clock was ticking, and he needed to go, and Ruth rather felt that it would best for all of them if he did not linger overlong. With careful hands she pulled Emma away, gathered in her close and held her tight.

"It's all right, love," she said, comforting herself as much as Emma. "Daddy will be home soon, you'll see."

At her choice of words Harry's eyes grew somewhat misty, and her restraint deserted her as he wrapped his arms around them both, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"Don't fret," he said. "You have the little birds we made, yes?"

Emma nodded, still sniffling just a little.

"You can look at them every day, and remember that I'm coming back. I won't leave my girls for long, I promise. All right?"

There was a tense moment as they all waited with bated to breath to see whether another storm of tears was coming, but it seemed that Harry's words had been reassurance enough.

"All right, daddy," Emma said at last.

He smiled and kissed her forehead, and then turned his attention once more to Ruth.

"Come back to me, Harry," she whispered.

"I'll be here before you know it," he promised.

And then he kissed her, one final time, before gathering his bag and walking resolutely out the door. Cate, who until that point had simply been staring at them all in a dumbfounded sort of way, finally found her voice.

"I'll see you when I get back," she said.

"We'll be here," Ruth answered.

And that was that. Cate turned to follow her father, and Ruth carried her daughter into the sitting room, trying to be strong enough to hold them both together while her own heart was in tatters.

* * *

"You ring me, when you get there," Catherine said, reaching out to fuss with his collar as they loitered outside security.

"I will," Harry assured her, sparing a moment to lament the astronomical phone bill all these international phone calls were about to heap on him. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart," he added.

Catherine smiled at him softly, this beautiful, incredibly strong young woman who had grown from the child Harry had failed so often in the past.

"I always do," she said.

And then, because she was his daughter, because he loved her more than his own life, because he was so immensely proud of her and everything she had accomplished, Harry quite suddenly gathered her into a fierce hug.

"I love you, Catherine," he said.

They parted quite quickly, both of them unused to such overt displays of affection.

"I love you, too, dad," she told him, and his heart sang, for it was the first time in a very long while she had spoken those words to him. "Have a safe journey."

"I'll ring you," he said again, for he knew that he could make no other promises to her. There was a long road of him, many questions yet to answer, dangers yet to face, but that much he could do.

There was nothing left to say, and so he squared his shoulders and walked away, feeling his daughter's gaze heavy upon his back. It was harder than he'd ever expected, leaving his family behind, but the knowledge that he would one day soon come back to stay gave him courage, and so his steps did not falter. This was not the end, he reminded himself. This was only the beginning.


	25. Chapter 25

_6 August 2013_

"Come now, Harry," Towers said in a wheedling sort of voice. "You can't be serious. You've tried to resign before. You didn't want to do it then, what makes you think it's a good idea now?"

Harry fought very hard not to sigh, in that moment. He was suffering a bit from jetlag, missing his family something fierce, and had spent all of the previous evening sitting at his desk deep within the heart of the Grid, trying to dig himself out from underneath the mountain of paperwork that had sprung up over the course of his absence. It had always been his intention to deliver his resignation to Towers at the earliest possible opportunity; he had known, deep in his heart, that if he waited more than a day or two he would be sucked back into the swirling vortex of activity that was his life in Thames House, and whatever personal desires he harbored for himself would be lost beneath the deluge. It would seem that he was right, for already he had a full slate of meetings and briefings and a half dozen operations that needed rather closer monitoring than they had received while he'd been away; the great machinery of the service slogged on, and he was already in dangers of being ground to dust between its gears.

"Does this having something to do with that Evershed woman you rang me about, earlier in the week?"

 _Damn him,_ but William Towers was an insightful bastard. It wasn't so hard to put together, Harry supposed, that he had begged this favor from Towers, to restore Ruth's name, and then only a bare few days later tendered his resignation, but still some small piece of him had hoped to shield her from view, to keep his motivations and his plans for his life after the service to himself. _Best laid plans,_ he thought glumly.

"I've been reviewing her file," Towers said, gesturing with one hand towards a thick folder perched on the desk by his elbow. "Brilliant analyst, but only with Five for a few years before her...death. According to the notes in here, she represented Five on a committee that arranged for the kidnap and transport of terror suspects for the purpose of torture. She seems like an odd choice, for that sort of operation."

"Did Ros-"

"Ros brought me _your_ files, yes," Towers answered, a bit smugly.

For years now Harry had kept a contingency of sorts in his safe, reams of notes, confessions from Mace's cronies, proof that Five had fabricated Ruth's involvement in the Cotterdam plot and her death in order to remove her from the frame and relieve the pressure on Harry. For years he had held those documents in trust, waiting, wondering if the time might ever come when he would have to use them, and Ros had delivered them to the HS as requested, so that Ruth's name might be cleared.

"I have to say, Harry, I didn't find them particularly enlightening," Towers continued. "The Cotterdam conspirators tried to frame Ruth for murder, so you attacked the head of the JIC and confessed to the crime yourself, so your team framed Ruth once more and faked her death to get you out of prison. It's all a bit...convoluted."

"We didn't have very much time to come up with a plan," Harry grumbled. He had gone over and over the events of those August days so many times in the intervening years and in hindsight had found a dozen different ways they could have dealt with the problem at hand, but he had not been blessed with such insight at the time. They had done the best they could with what they were given, and Ruth had paid the price for their haste.

"I just don't understand why Ruth was ever involved in the first place, Harry. Why would they target her? Unless, of course, they knew she was the best way to get to you."

"This is all ancient history, Home Secretary," Harry said stiffly. He had no intention of discussing his personal life with Towers, and he needed to stop this particular line of inquiry immediately. "Ruth has made a life for herself elsewhere, and she has no desire to come back to Five. I simply thought it was the right thing to do, to restore her good name, before I leave the service for good."

"Of course," Towers said. For a moment all his unspoken questions hung thick and tense between them, but then he rather delicately decided to let the subject drop.

"I really can't convince you to stay, Harry?"

"My time has come," he said simply. "I'll stay on for a month or so, long enough for Ros to get her feet under her, and then I'll take my leave."

"It will be a sad day for the service, but it seems you've made up your mind. If by September you're still certain this is what you want, I suppose I'll have no choice but to let you go." Towers ran a weary hand across his face. "Where will you go, Harry?"

Harry smiled thinly.

"Home," he answered.

* * *

 _23 August 2013_

With the last of the dinner dishes washed and dried and neatly stacked away Ruth made her way up the stairs to check on Emma's progress. It was bedtime, and Friday night besides, and Ruth was rather looking forward to singing her daughter to sleep before making her way over to Cate's for a beer and a bit of grown-up conversation. This was the last weekend of the summer holidays, for Ruth and Emma both, as Emma's school would start the following Monday, and Ruth would that same day greet her first class of the new term. Though the weather remained murderously hot and humid with no indication that anything at all had changed, the sense of an ending hung heavy in the air. The long sultry days of playing with the children and chatting to Cate had drawn to a close, and early morning school runs and piles of papers to grade and Emma's homework to oversee lay ahead. They would all have to step once more into a world of structure and responsibilities, and leave the languid joy of summer far behind.

And yet, there was a sense of new beginnings, as well, with a whole host of new students for Ruth, and a new teacher for Emma, new things to learn and new opportunities to seize, and Harry's impending arrival to anticipate. Ruth had not spoken to him for several days, but that was not so very strange, given his schedule and the strained tone of his voice when last they spoke. He was embroiled in some sort of turmoil he could not share with Ruth - much as it pained them both that he should have to keep any secrets from her - but he had promised he was coming home, and she clung to that promise with everything she had.

When she reached her daughter's doorway she paused for a moment, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight that waited for her there. Emma was curled up beneath her blankets, cradling the little pink crane Harry had made for her in her little hand. That little bird had been a stroke of genius on Harry's part, Ruth thought, for it had sat on Emma's bedside table every day he'd been gone, served as a physical reminder of him and his love for her that she could reach out and touch, a reminder of the promise he had made to her.

"What's that, love?" Ruth asked as she stepped into the room, crossing to her daughter's bedside at once and sitting down beside her. She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to give Emma the opportunity to talk about her father, about her feelings, if she wanted it, if she needed it.

"Daddy's bird," Emma answered simply, offering it to Ruth for her inspection. Ruth accepted it carefully, turning it over and over beneath her fingertips, smiling fondly as she remembered the day that he had made it.

"He'll be home soon," Ruth told her gently. "Remember? He promised. And your daddy always keeps his promises."

And he did, her Harry. _I promise you, there will be time to grieve. I promise you, Ruth, we will sort this out._ Promises he had made, sworn to her with all the conviction he possessed, and though it had taken rather longer than either of them had anticipated, in the end, he had made good on them. Ruth had found time to grieve, here in this place beneath the boiling sun, had watched her daughter grow and felt her heart grow lighter as the restless ghosts of her past were laid to rest. And he had sorted out the Cotterdam fiasco, in the end, seven years behind schedule, but still. He had given her back her name, and her hope, had given her cause for joy.

 _I swear to you, my love. I will come back to you._

This most recent promise was the one she treasured most.

"Let's put him somewhere safe," she suggested, reaching out to place the little bird on the bedside table. "Would you like a song?"

Emma nodded emphatically, and so Ruth began to sing, softly, quietly, a song she remembered her own father singing to her when she was small, smoothing her hand over her daughter's hair until Emma's eyes finally closed, and her breathing slowed, deep and even. Ruth brushed a kiss against her forehead and slipped from the room on silent feet, closing the door behind her with a soft smile on her face.

For perhaps half an hour she waited, puttering around the house, making sure Emma really was asleep, and then she gathered up the baby monitor and traipsed across the grass to the porch where Cate was already waiting for her, sitting in a chair with two bottles of beer close to hand.

"All right?" Cate asked as she took her accustomed seat and her drink.

"I think so," Ruth answered truthfully. Emma remembered her father fondly, and looked forward to his return almost as much as Ruth did, and much as this separation pained her the knowledge that they would soon be reunited lessened the sting of it, somewhat.

They sat together in silence for a time, listening to the buzzing of the insects and trying to make out the stars in the inky black sky overhead. On impulse Ruth checked her mobile, wondering at the time, and found a little notification, an email there waiting for her to read. It was sent from an account she recognized as belonging to Harry, though he used it but rarely. For a moment she felt the old familiar bite of fear; it was well past 9:00 in this sleepy corner of America, which mean that in Harry's world it was after 2:00 a.m.; what on earth could he have had to say, at such an hour? There was no message; he had only forwarded her a notice from an airline, confirming a one way flight from Heathrow to her local airport for Monday the 2nd of September.

A strangled sort of sound passed Ruth's lips and Cate turned to her at once, her face frightened in the dim light streaming in from the kitchen behind them. Ruth's throat was too tight to speak, constricted with a desperate sort of hopeful longing, and so she only handed the mobile over so that Cate might read for herself.

It only took a moment, and then Cate was laughing.

"I can't believe it," she said. "The old bastard's actually done it."

And he had. After seven years, and three weeks, he had finally done it, had slipped free from the chains of duty and guilt that bound him for so much of his life, and set his feet on the path to joining Ruth at last. In ten days' time Ruth would hold him in her arms once more, and she was so happy in that moment she hardly recognized herself.

"To new beginnings," Cate said winsomely, holding out her bottle.

Ruth returned the gesture and they toasted together, each of them taking a long drink as they pondered the mystery of their own lives, the wonder that was to come. Ruth took up her mobile once more, and fired off a single, brief response.

 _I'm waiting for you,_ she said.

For seven long years she had waited for him, and now it seemed that at long last her waiting had come to an end. Harry was coming _home._


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: this chapter comes with a special and heartfelt thank you to andallthatmishigas, who has gracefully allowed me to borrow one of her ideas, and who has been a constant encouragement to me throughout this story.**

* * *

 _2 September 2013_

They were waiting for him, all five of them, standing together just outside the baggage claim. Ruth and Cate both clung to their children, holding their hands and keeping a close eye on them as people milled all around them, the crowd surging and receding as new flights landed and earlier passengers moved on. The vast, cavernous space was full of echoing noise and activity, and among their little group the nervous tension was slowly becoming unbearable. Harry had been away for barely a month, but for his lover, his daughters, his grandsons, it had seemed far longer, far harder to bear. Waiting for the joy of this reunion, for the feeling that their lives could begin again, properly, was a constant struggle between hope and despair, between faith and hesitation, and no one had felt that push-and-pull more keenly than Ruth.

She had taken care, when she dressed that morning, when she brushed out her daughter's hair, when she explained to Emma, yet again, what they would do when they went to the airport, when her daddy came home to stay. Her dress was soft and pretty, Emma's hair combed and neatly pulled back, her daughter's little hand clasped tight in her own as they scanned the entrances, searching the faces of every man who passed through, looking for some sign of _him._ Ruth's earlier suspicions that Harry would not be able to manage a call every single day turned to be justified, as in the end he had only been able to ring her a couple times a week. Those conversations had often been rather brief, between the time difference and their demanding schedules, but each time they spoke Harry reiterated his promise to her. _I am coming home, my love._

 _My love;_ that was his true vow, not his assurances that he would return home but his insistence that he loved her, adored her, treasured her, was willing to change his whole life for her sake, that the ties that bound them together were stronger than the doubts and the fears and the worries that had kept them apart for so long. That his love was strong enough to carry them through, whatever happened next.

"What if they don't let him through?" Cate murmured softly to Ruth, her gaze flicking back and forth from her watch to the door and back again.

Ruth had asked Harry the selfsame question, how he intended to arrange his life in a new country, one that was not his home. He had given Ruth his answer, and she repeated it to Cate now.

"It's all been sorted," she said. Her tone was confident, for if Harry said _it's sorted,_ then she knew it must be, knew the power he wielded so effortlessly, the friends, the favors, the sheer bloody-minded tenacity he possessed, and she knew that when he turned his mind to a task he did not rest until it was completed.

Cate flashed her a grateful smile, and had Ruth's hand not been clasped around her daughter's she might well have reached for Cate in that moment. From their first meeting they had been friends, had laughed together, spoken softly to one another of all sorts of things, and though the revelation of Ruth's identity and their previously unknown connection to one another had briefly threatened the stability of their friendship in the end they had come through stronger than ever before. There was no one in her life - except, of course, for Harry - to whom Ruth could speak so earnestly of herself, her experiences, her thoughts and hopes as she could with Cate. They shared so much in common, so many things that no one else could ever hope to understand, and through the sharing of their burdens, through the long sultry summer nights and the glasses of wine and the gentle conversation they shared they had drawn closer and closer, had become the very best of friends. And Ruth rather liked to think that as much as Cate understood her, she could offer that very same depth of empathy to Cate, could understand what it was to lose a love, to raise a child on her own, to navigate their professional world while also balancing the obligations of their hearts. Yes, Ruth's story had a rather happier ending than Cate's, but there was a handsome new professor of film studies who had of late been dropping by Cate's office _just to say hi,_ bringing her coffee and smiling at her in that slightly awkward, slightly hopeful way Ruth recognized all too easily. Cate blushed each time his name was mentioned, and Ruth kept her suspicions to herself, hopeful that even if Cate could not find another love as deep and lasting and true as that she bore for Fabian she could, at the very least, find a piece of happiness for herself.

"There he is!" Emma squealed, tugging on her mother's hand and racing forward. Ruth shot a sheepish glance at Cate, who just laughed and said, "go on, then!"

So they did. Ruth followed along in her daughter's wake, keeping hold of her hand until at last it seemed they had a clear path to Harry. He stood tall and proud in blue jeans and a black shirt open at the collar, and Ruth could not help the somewhat choked sound of laughter that left her as she realized he was now sporting a neat salt-and-pepper beard. _I think you'd look quite dashing with a beard,_ she'd told him once, and he had taken her words to heart, the way he always did, and tears sprang to her eyes at the very thought. They were close enough now, and so Ruth released her tenuous hold on Emma.

The little girl took off running at once, arms outstretched, crying out _daddy!_ At her approach Harry dropped the bag he carried, and caught her the moment she reached him, lifting her up in his arms and planting a gentle kiss against her cheek as he cradled her close. Even from a distance his beaming smile was brighter than any Ruth had ever seen from him before. The somewhat shrill tenor of Emma's delighted squeals had attracted attention from a few bystanders, but they all just smiled knowingly at this little reunion between father and daughter, at this moment of kindness in an oftentimes cruel world.

"Hello, my darling girl," Ruth heard Harry say as she drew nearer to the pair of them.

"You came back!" Emma crowed delightedly.

"Daddy always keeps his promises, love," Ruth reminded her softly, one hand coming to rest on her daughter's back as the other reached for Harry's cheek, fingertips ruffling the soft line of his beard as she grinned at him and he at her, both of them feeling a bit foolish, a bit euphoric, a bit like they had stepped into a different world altogether.

"Anything for my girls," Harry said solemnly. He turned his head, let his lips brush against her palm, and the tenuous threads of Ruth's self-control utterly snapped. She tangled her fingers in his soft hair and drew him to her, soft lips brushing through their smiles and the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, Emma still clutched tight in her father's embrace. "Anything for you," Harry whispered, the words washing warm and sweet over her lips as he leaned closer and kissed her again.

But only for a moment, because then Cate and the boys were there, and there were hugs and kisses and exclamations, and Ruth's heart swelled full to bursting with love of her little family. At long last, Harry was _home,_ where he belonged, and she could finally believe that everything would be all right.

* * *

 _31 October 2013_

"Just one more picture," Ruth said, grinning.

Harry wanted to scowl at her, to playfully mutter some sort of complaint about the obscenity of this overdone Americanized holiday, but in truth he was too delighted to even feign grumpiness. He stood in the kitchen of Ruth's little house - _their_ little house, now - with his daughter's hand held tightly in his own. Beside him, little Emma was dressed as a pirate, and beaming from ear to ear. At her insistence, her somewhat reluctant father had agreed to accompany her as she went trick-or-treating, though Harry had put his foot down and staunchly refused to don a costume.

"Harry's first Halloween," Ruth said in a teasing voice as she took a few more shots, laughing outright at the somewhat outraged expression on his face.

It had been strange, at first, adjusting to this new life, one in which Harry was not beset every moment by fear and frantic activity. The first few weeks had been difficult, for his very sense of self was so closely tied to his work on the Grid that he hardly knew what to do with the abundance of time and leisure now gifted to him. Upon arrival he had, at Catherine's insistence, stayed with his daughter while he searched for a place of his own to rent, but he was too enamored with his family - and spending far too many nights in Ruth's bed - to really dedicate himself to the task, and at the beginning of October he had given up any attempts at maintaining the ruse of his independence and moved into Ruth's home. And they had, for the last few weeks, been quite blissfully happy together.

It was different, of course, sharing his home and his time with Ruth. Without the constant threat of separation and the lingering bite of fear their relationship had, of necessity, begun to change. They quarrelled, on occasion, as any couple might, but Harry found that a vase full of flowers and a few kind words were usually sufficient to cool his lover's ire, and that despite her frustrating tendency towards chaos and clutter he loved her enough to adapt to their circumstances. He told his daughter stories at bedtime and fell asleep with his arms full of Ruth, shared meals with Catherine and played silly games with his grandsons, and any discomfort he might have felt at the adjustment was made bearable by the joyous love of his family.

In need of some way to occupy himself he had made his way to the local library, taking the occasional class and volunteering with events that appealed to his interests. It was hardly life or death stuff, the work he did at the library, and was in truth at times rather boring, but it kept him occupied, brought him out of the house and gave him the opportunity to engage with people outside his family. With time on his hands he had discovered a fondness for cooking, and often fed his family meals made by his own hand. Ruth did not laugh at him or his newfound domesticity; when she came home from work after a long day, after Harry had done the school run and brought the children home and spent a bit of time in the kitchen, she always wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly, murmured her thanks in a tone of voice that conveyed the sincerity of her gratitude and reassured him that he had made the right choice, in uprooting his life and undertaking such a drastic change of course.

The holidays were fast approaching, and they had already decided between them that the whole family would venture to London for Christmas. His house was waiting for them, still fully furnished and seen to by a cleaning service that dropped round once a week to make sure everything was in order, and a few old friends who popped by on occasion to keep an eye on the cleaning service. Before his departure Harry had overseen the renovation of the spare bedroom, and he was quite looking forward to Emma's delight when she discovered the changes he had made with her in mind. Catherine and the boys would, of course, be spending some time with her mother, but Harry had no intention of imposing on Jane's hospitality, even for a moment. He and Ruth and Emma would have a Christmas celebration of their own, and a cheeky encrypted email from Malcolm had assured him that he could expect a visit from a few old friends. Harry was rather looking forward to it.

And he was also rather looking forward to Christmas Eve, after Emma had gone to sleep, when he intended to slide into bed next to Ruth and present to her the single most important gift he had ever purchased for anyone. A delicate, understated diamond ring was at that very moment nestled inside a small black box, buried in the very depths of his dresser drawer beneath piles of socks and underwear, just waiting for the moment when he could finally ask the question that had been on the verge of bursting from his lips for months now. Life with Ruth was lovely, more wonderful than he could ever have imagined, and he was quite looking forward to making things permanent between them.

"Are we ready to go, then?" Ruth asked, putting away her camera and reaching out to straighten her daughter's little hat one final time.

"Are you sure you don't want to wear a costume, daddy?" Emma asked him dubiously, blue eyes wide and round and bright as her mother's. In most situations Harry found he could refuse his youngest child nothing, but he wasn't sure his dignity could take the humility of wandering around the neighborhood in fancy dress. His sixtieth birthday was the very next day, and he felt he was much too old for such nonsense.

"Daddy doesn't need a costume, love," Ruth assured her. "He's a knight in shining armor, remember?"

She liked to tease him about his knighthood, called him _Sir Harry_ when she was in a lighthearted, playful sort of mood, and the idea that her father was knight had filled little Emma's head full of fanciful imaginings of dragons and princesses and grand adventures. Of course, Harry could not tell his daughter the truth of his investiture, the work that he had done to earn the gratitude of his nation, but _Ruth_ knew, and even her playful teasing carried with it a gentle sort of understanding. She knew the sacrifices, the cost of the life he had lived, knew the number and the making of every scar that marred his body, and she loved him for it.

"And Mumma is my Lady," Harry answered, bowing his head to brush a kiss against Ruth's cheek.

For she was. He had risked everything to save her, once, and she had given her very life for him, and they had somehow, through heartache and strife, found their way back to one another. Their little house on their quite street might not have been a castle, but it was a warm, comfortable place where they had made a life for themselves, and Harry could not recall having ever been happier. One day, one day soon, he would make Ruth _Lady Pearce,_ would finally make the commitment and the love between them official and unbreakable, and all would be well.

"Off we go," he said, and with Emma's hand still wrapped around his own and Ruth beside him he ventured out into the night to make new memories for himself and his family.


End file.
